


Gallifrey Records: The Wedding Album

by cereal, gallifreyburning



Series: Gallifrey Records [18]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-26
Updated: 2013-10-26
Packaged: 2017-12-30 13:52:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 24,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1019395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cereal/pseuds/cereal, https://archiveofourown.org/users/gallifreyburning/pseuds/gallifreyburning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the Doctor and Rose, tying the knot is anything but a simple affair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

  


The appointment is scheduled for a Friday afternoon with only the slightest bit of forethought.

Nearly everyone they know is out of town, the register’s office had the date open, and, if the story does leak, it’s got the best chance of being swallowed up on a Friday night.

It’s not the most extravagant arrangement, but it’s what they want, and so, when that Friday finally rolls around, three weeks after the appointment was made, and nearly a year after getting engaged, the Doctor puts on a brown suit, Rose puts on a white dress, and they walk the six blocks to Joanie’s preschool.

It’s a walk they’ve made loads of times, in sun, in rain, in heat, in wind, and it’s always a nice walk, if not a little bit boring.

Boring enough anyway, that the paparazzi left them alone on it months ago, no longer able to sell the same photo of the Doctor and Rose holding hands in different clothing each week.

Today, though, today would’ve been a good day for a photographer to get a shot off, and the Doctor had assumed, when he thought about this day in the weeks leading up to it, that he’d be on the lookout for them.

He sees now that he completely underestimated what Rose Tyler in a white dress walking toward marrying him would be like. There’s no way his eyes are going anywhere else, not the street in front of him, not the lamppost he walked into, not shops or cars or even bloody aliens have the slightest chance at his attention.

And Rose, too, seems wrapped up in him, beaming at him with a wide, happy smile every time he catches her eye, and swinging their hands between them as they walk. Her finger keeps tapping his ring finger, sliding over skin that in an hour will be covered by a thin platinum band and belong to a married man.

The register’s office is a few doors down from the preschool, and they pick Joanie up first, along with her two teachers, who will serve as witnesses. They’d initially thought to bring their own along, Jack and Donna maybe, or Mickey and Martha, but the more discussions they’d had, the more it became clear that picking and choosing like that was only going to lead to hurt feelings – not least those of Jackie Tyler.

It’s part of what led them to elope in the first place – they’d need to go all or nothing on a wedding, because doing it halfway would be even more trouble. Since neither of them had an interest in planning a big production, not when their lives were already full of those, it became this.

They love each other, they want to spend their lives together, and no amount of two thousand quid wedding cake or organza was going to make it mean more.

(Which is exactly what the Doctor would tell Jackie Tyler, if he had the nerve, and if he and Rose didn’t both swiftly change the subject every time it was brought up.)

Anyway, the teachers are trustworthy, Joanie’s been in their class for a while now and not a word of anything inappropriate has appeared in the papers. They’ve even gotten her to put on her dress for the ceremony, and kept it (mostly) clean.

It’s the five of them then, Joanie between the Doctor and Rose, each of them clutching one of her hands, on the short walk to the register’s office.

From there, it’s a quick transaction and they’re in front of the register, a civil ceremony in full swing as Joanie tears up and down the aisles shouting happily, parroting the words of the register in a sing-song voice for a few minutes before demanding that Rose pick her up.

One of the teachers rushes to get Joanie from Rose’s arms, but there’s a moment where the Doctor looks at Rose and Joanie, looks at the two most important women in his life wrapped around each other, and everything else falls away.

The floor drops out and his head goes warm and he’s overcome, completely overcome and overwhelmed and overjoyed, eyes welling up and a lump in his throat, and his hands shake for the rest of the ceremony.

He puts a ring on Rose’s finger and she puts a ring on his and there’s more words, more happy singing and shouting and noise from Joanie and then they’re kissing, they’re kissing as husband and wife, and his feet may never touch the ground again.

They sign the certificate, leave the office, and have exactly three hours of wedded bliss before the phone rings.

The Doctor doesn’t even notice the first call, mobile vibrating away in his pocket as he distracts Joanie so Rose can surreptitiously deposit slivers of chicken into her mouth between giggles. They’d gone to a park after the ceremony, to give Joanie space to run her energy out, and eventually ended up at their favorite restaurant.

They sat in this very same booth just a few days ago, Joanie happily smashing chips between her fingers and shouting “All-on see! All-on see!” to all the diners within earshot. (Apparently Jackie has been teaching her phrases in French, something about how Joanie’s brain is a veritable language sponge at this age.) If a patron from three days ago happened to see them today, they wouldn’t be able to tell a single thing had changed … except that Joanie’s French phrase is now “Merde!” (going to have to have a word with Jackie about that one), and there is a subtle, wonderfully solid chunk of metal circling his left ring finger.

The Doctor’s using a napkin as a puppet to entertain Joanie, halfway through a performance when the mobile buzzes again. He notices it this time, and at the same moment, “I Believe in Her” starts up from the purse dangling off the back of Rose’s chair. It’s a pop song by the boy band du jour with a mental name, something like Cropped Tour, and Rose chose it because she caught the Doctor singing it in the shower a few weeks ago. Singing, plus trying out a few dance steps from the music video.

Fine, all the dance steps.

After she stopped giggling, Rose had soothed his ego by assuring him that he most definitely wasnot too old to crank that, and then joined him in the shower so he could show her the rest of his moves.

He isn’t kidding himself: this far into their relationship, she’s already seen all of his moves. Regardless, she was still impressed.

Twice.

They simultaneously pull out their mobiles to check caller ID, a frown crossing each of their faces.

“Donna,” the Doctor says, sending it to voicemail with a flick of his finger

“Mum,” Rose says in greeting, putting the mobile to her ear. The Doctor absentmindedly jiggles the napkin-puppet in front of Joanie, and she squeals, kicking the table from her booster seat. Silverware rattles. “No, I hadn’t forgotten about tonight.” Rose’s brown eyes flit up to meet the Doctor’s and she makes a face. “An hour, I know, I know. I promised I’d help, and I’ll be there. See you soon. Ta.”

She jams her thumb into the mobile screen, and the device beeps and goes dark.

“Don’t frown at me like that! We’ve got to tell Mum sometime, sooner rather than later. Better she finds out from us than the press, yeah?”

A thousand possible Jackie Tyler-induced deaths, from the beginning to the end of the universe, flicker through the Doctor’s mind. It is a series of images that would quell a lesser man. And yet, one thing supersedes any thought of agony, of mortality, of the infinite and endless gamut of the Doctor’s ever-impending existential crisis in the face of his own demise.

“It’s our wedding night,” he says. The whine at the edge of his voice is undeniable.

“Your pout is worse than your frown,” Rose retorts, rolling her eyes and kicking him under the table. A tiny smile pulls at the right corner of her mouth.

“Merde!” Joanie crows happily, proffering a fist-full of chicken to Rose. “Merde, Mama! Merde!”

It eventually turns into a song, to a tune that sounds suspiciously like Eensy Weensy Spider and projects at a volume the Doctor can professionally be impressed by, and parentally be keen to put a stop to, and they hustle out of the restaurant as soon as they’ve settled the bill.

Jackie’s place is only a quick drive away and they make the short walk back to their own home to pick up the car.

Rose is at their front door nearly before he can stop her, and he startles Joanie with a shout.

"Wait!"

Her hand falls away from the knob and she looks back at him in the driveway with her eyebrows raised.

"What? I’m just grabbing jackets."

Joanie has wiggled her way off his hip and is now running circles around his feet, preventing him from getting any closer and having this conversation any quieter.

"There are jackets in the car. Just – just come here," he says, voice slightly pleading. "Don’t go in there, not right now."

Rose casually pushes off the door jamb and walks over to him, amusement tugging at her lips.

"Did you do something ridiculous to the house? Are there rose petals on the floor?"

He scoops Joanie back up and moves for the car door, attempting to bundle Rose into the passenger side at the same time.

"No, there aren’t any rose petals on the floor," he says. "Unless you want there to be, in which case, you go on ahead to your mother’s and Joanie and I have some errands to run that definitely do not include the florist."

Rose rolls her eyes, laughing at him, but ducks into the car anyway.

"You’re not getting out of my mum’s, so let’s hear the real reason."

He finishes buckling Joanie into her car seat and jogs back to the driver’s side, slipping in next to Rose.

"It’ll be our first time in our home as husband and wife," he tells her. "I’ve got to carry you over the threshold and all that. Not run in forjackets.”

Rose’s face shifts to a smile and she tugs him closer by his tie. “Aw, that’s sort of sweet actually, come here.”

She deposits a quick kiss to his lips that he’d intends to draw out a little bit, but a piece of cereal lands in his hair before he can get anything started, and he looks back to see Joanie smiling toothily.

With a sigh, he removes the cereal and starts the car, maneuvering out into traffic as Rose leans into the back to confiscate the rest of the cereal.

Joanie’s apparently got a secret reserve though, as the cereal tossing keeps up for the entire ride, clear into Jackie’s driveway.

A final insulting handful is dumped into his hands as he unbuckles Joanie from her car seat and before he can dispose of it, Joanie’s off like a shot down the street, Rose on her heels.

"Bev! Bev! Ty-Ty!"

He turns to see that Joanie’s caught sight of Bev, one of Jackie’s friends, and her grandson, Tyson, out for a walk.

Bev greets Joanie with a wide smile, and Tyson greets her with a shriek, as the Doctor catches up to them and the adults exchange greetings as well.

"If you’re looking for your mum," Bev says, "she just left, said she’d be right back."

Rose nods. “I guess we are a little early, we can wait inside. Come on, Joanie,” she reaches her hand toward Joanie, who shakes her head in reply, reaching instead for Tyson’s hand.

Bev laughs, “Thick as thieves, these two. If you want, I can take Joanie to the park with us, bring her ‘round when we’re done?”

To the Doctor’s surprise, Rose only puts up a very small amount of polite protestation before agreeing and thanking Bev. Then she’s tugging the Doctor toward Jackie’s front door.

They’re in the entryway and still on the move when the Doctor finally realizes that Rose seems to be leading him with a purpose.

He doesn’t have to wonder long as she tugs him into the doorway of a spare room.

"That," she says, pointing at the bed, "is where I was sitting when I got the call from you about coming on tour. Right there – that bed.”

The Doctor grins at her, warmth flooding his veins. So this is where this is going.

Perfect.

"Which call? I had to ask twice, you know."

Their hands are still clasped and she twines their fingers together, pulling him into the room to sit on the edge of bed.

"The second one," she says. "The time I said yes."

He ducks his head, leaning into kiss her and stopping just before her lips. “I’m glad you said yes.”

She smiles, her lips brushing his. “Me, too.”

There are all sorts of emotional conversations they could have, all the usual cliches, but he’s a married man now, and a father, and he’s up against the clock, so instead he presses his mouth to hers and kisses his wife on the bed where it all began for them.

Ten minutes later, he’s got his tongue in her mouth, a hand up her dress and two fingers inside her knickers, when they hear noise at the front door.

"Finish, finish, finish," Rose pleads against his mouth, hips rutting against his hand, but it’s no use, the noise is growing louder, and closer, and he pulls his hand back.

He drops a quick kiss to her mouth and darts into the en suite as Rose groans and stands to straighten herself out.

Within a matter of minutes, Rose has Jackie cornered in the lounge. Jackie keeps trying to herd Rose into the kitchen to look at brochures — something about their official charity foundation, a new fundraising campaign for some worthy cause or other, choosing which ad company to go with. But Rose situates her mother in an armchair, the Doctor and Rose on the couch across from her.

It’s eerily reminiscent of the scene that played out in this very room years ago, after their first tour together, Rose bringing the Doctor home to introduce her to Jackie for the first time. He can’t decide whether he was more terrified then, or now.

Then, his terror wasn’t as much about Jackie in particular, and was more about how domestic the whole situation was — meeting someone’s mum. Now, his terror is entirely about Jackie in particular, and if he could be wearing an apron and vacuuming in his pearls instead of sitting right here right now, he’d do it in a heartbeat.

He’s trying to maintain an air of casual inattention, as if he isn’t perched on the couch like a cat on a pincushion. Rose doesn’t seem flustered at all, just excited.

“You didn’t have to come, Doctor,” Jackie huffs, a thin veneer of politeness over her irritation. “There’s probably some football on, you can watch while Rose helps me with the —”

“Mum, when have you ever known the Doctor to watch football?” Rose asks.

“When he’s at my house and trying to avoid talking to me, that’s when. Looks like he’d like to be in the den now. Go on then, we’ll take care of the details for the benefit, and let you know when we’ve finished.”

It’s true, he’d rather sit through a root canal or five than have to organize the mundane details of a fundraiser — his specialty is appearing at the last minute, putting on a show, saving the day with his stunning good looks and universally appealing charisma. The details of planning and clean-up always belong in someone else’s hands; he’s just there for the main event.

Announcing their marriage to Jackie is a detail, right? Not the main event — they already took care of that, just the two of them. The Doctor shoots a sideways look toward Rose, desperate hope in his eyes. Because maybe, just maybe she wants to talk to Jackie about this marriage business in private?

“It’s probably a rubbish match anyway,” he grudges.

“Mum, we have something to tell you.”

Jackie has been picking at her trousers in irritation, worrying at the ironed crease atop her knees. Her hands still and her gaze swivels between them, taking in Rose’s moderately confident smile and the Doctor’s thin-lipped grimace.

Realization dawns across her face. “Oh my god. Oh my god!” she squeals, quivering in place for a split-second before launching herself across the room to sweep them both up into an enormous bear hug. The Doctor finds himself wiggling in her grip like a pet caught up in a child’s too-tight embrace, pushing ineffectually at Jackie with straight-armed determination. “You’re having another baby!”

“Not pregnant!” Rose squeaks. “Married! We got married this afternoon!”

The force of Jackie’s arms loosens considerably, and she takes a half-step away. The Doctor collapses into the back cushions of the couch with a dignified wheeze. Rose stands up to take her mother’s hands. “Just popped ‘round to the courthouse and signed the papers this afternoon. It’ll be simpler this way, for legal things.” Rose is beaming too hard now, the cracks beginning to show — Jackie is horrified, there’s no other way to interpret that expression, and Rose’s pretense at making this a casual announcement has utterly failed. “Who knows, maybe I’ll even take his last name.” She winks and shrugs, and that seals it, the nail on the coffin of Jackie’s spirit.

Jackie takes another step back, her heavily chapsticked lips quivering, even though she’s got them pressed together tight. “You had a … wedding” — she says the word like it’s a profanity — “and you didn’t tell me?”

“We’re telling you right now,” Rose says, a feeble attempt at silly humor. She takes another step toward Jackie, and Jackie takes a mirrored step away. The back of her knees hit the armchair, and she collapses into it like a ragdoll.

“You didn’t invite me.”

“We didn’t want to make a fuss, Mum. Just signed the papers, is all. You’ve been so busy lately, running the foundation, traveling back and forth between here and New York to take care of everything, we didn’t want to give you something else to worry about.”

“Something to — to worry about? You thought that I would worry?” Jackie blinks, eyes watery, and the Doctor sits forward, pulling his left hand out of his pocket and reaching forward to take Rose’s hand. It’s trembling, because she’s upset that Jackie’s so upset. Upset that she’s so disappointed.

The Doctor never had parental figures whose opinions he cared much about, certainly none whose disappointment could trigger gut-level instincts of distress and mortification. Rose is the most independent and self-sufficient woman the Doctor has ever met, and yet the sight of her mother like this still makes her feel like that teenaged starlet under her manager-mum’s wing.

He can’t relate, but he definitely understands.

“After that stunt in Vegas, the pictures in the paper of the two of you at the wedding chapel,” Jackie says, hands clenched, “when we had the conversation afterward, I thought you realized how much it meant to me.”

“But we’re married, that’s the important thing,” Rose says, and it’s a drowning man reaching for a deflated life raft. It strikes the Doctor that this disappointment isn’t about the marriage — it’s about the wedding itself.

Jackie’s tear-filled eyes shift to the Doctor. “Pete got my name wrong at our wedding. Did you ever know that?”

He shakes his head.

“It wasn’t a big to-do or anything. Not in a church, just went to the government office and signed the papers. Like mother, like daughter, I suppose.” She takes a slow, shaky breath. “My parents were dead, y’know, and Pete and me didn’t have any money. That’s why we kept it so simple. Pete tried to make the best of it — he hung tulle and fairy lights all over the flat for the little reception we had afterward. Mints and lager, and my friend Sarah baked a cake. Pete always said we’d do it right on our tenth anniversary, re-affirm our vows and have a big to-do like he wanted to give me in the first place. A proper venue, with dinner and dancing and all our friends and family there.”

“Oh, Mum.” Rose is squeezing the Doctor’s hand so hard, his fingers are going numb.

“It’s silly.” Jackie takes a deep breath, slapping her hands onto her knees and rising to her feet. She sniffles, wiping one cheek. “I’m being silly. Congratulations to you both. It’s about damn time.”

"We haven’t had a reception yet," the Doctor blurts out, and both women turn to stare at him as if he’s grown a second head.

Being a married man has obviously made him mental.

He wants to backpedal, wants to reach out into the air and snatch the words away, and then take a nice, long holiday from speaking for, oh, two, three weeks, tops, just enough to make sure he doesn’t say anything else ridiculous.

Instead he repeats himself.

"We haven’t had a reception yet," he says. "And we could – we could have a reception and you could…plan it?"

His voice is very, very high on the last bit.

Rose’s hand goes slack in his, her mouth opening slightly in his peripheral vision.

"Or help plan it? I think I meant help? Rose…help? Did I…help?”

Someone should definitely check the oxygen levels in this house, he has a daughter, for fuck’s sake, he can’t just be bringing her into places where all the air in the room suddenly evaporates.

And that’s clearly what’s happened, because he feels dizzy and light-headed and obviously, obviously in the grips of a complete mental collapse.

Still standing above them, Jackie lets out a choked, happy sound, but then appears to try and compose herself, waiting on her daughter’s reaction.

He turns to Rose, eyes wide, and is surprised to feel himself pulled into a hug.

"Help’s good," Rose says, loud enough for Jackie to hear. And then, right in his ear, "We couldn’t have talked about this first?"

Within the confines of the hug, he tries shrugging apologetically, but then Rose is letting him go only long enough for both of them to be swept up into a hug by Jackie.

"Oh, you’ll see," Jackie says when she pulls back, "this will be wonderful! I’ve already got so many ideas! Rose, honey, what do you think about –"

In a life or death situation, the Doctor would be hard pressed to say what the rest of the words out of Jackie’s mouth were. Tulle, maybe? Is tulle a real thing?

Everything has turned into a loud, high pitched buzzing as he recognizes the gravity of what he’s done, and the room continues spinning slightly until a knock on the door brings things back into focus.

"Joanie!" He’s shouting, and stumbling for the door, opening it to see Bev and Tyson and, oh, his daughter, his beautiful, wonderful daughter who is somehow going to make this entire situation better, just by existing.

In a rush, he sweeps Joanie up and thanks Bev.

Jackie practically apparates to his side, looking poised to share the news with Bev, but then Rose is there, too, shaking her head at Jackie – beautiful, wonderful Rose, who certainly isn’t going to hold this against him, and will help manage it, and everything will be OK.

Jackie nods in understanding and they all bid Bev good night before Jackie takes Joanie from his arms, cooing at her.

"Did your Mum and Dad finally get married? Oh, and look at you in your pretty dress!" Jackie turns to Rose. "We’ll get her another one for the reception – is your husband going to insist on brown for everything?”

The buzzing in his head returns.

~~~~~

Lady Christina de Souza is, by all accounts, the most wanted celebrity wedding planner in the entirety of Europe. She has a reality tv show on Sky One, a swashbuckling panache to her personality, and a sense of planning and organization that would give Lord Nelson a run for his money. Her events are the stuff of legend.

Lady Christina’s calendar is already booked years in advance, but somehow (Rose doesn’t want to know the details, especially not the details involving cash numbers, for the sake of her own sanity) Jackie managed to book her for three months out. Not to be filmed for the reality show, Rose was adamant about that, there would be no cameras following them around. But whatever other business terms or black magic Jackie had to work to secure Lady Christina’s services, the deal was done.

It seems like a long stretch between wedding and reception, three months, except the sheer scope and size of the enterprise is breathtaking. A castle in Scotland, and the small village nearby, has been rented out in its entirety. An army of service people have descended, making everything over into the most picturesque version of a country wedding anyone could imagine — the project is positively Potemkin in scale.

Two weeks into the planning process, Rose decided not to fight the current. Less of a current, actually, and more of a riptide. Partially out of guilt, partially because her mother is a force of nature when she gets swept up in a project like this. There are a few hills Rose nearly died on — the reality television filming issue, the band and music selection, a few people added to the guest list. But by and large this is a Jackie Tyler and Lady Christina production.

The last few weeks leading up to the event, the Doctor barricades himself into the recording studio. Whenever Rose calls to ask his opinion about anything — tuxedo styles, dinner menus, centerpieces — he makes fake crackling noises with his mouth and shouts that he’s driving into a tunnel before disconnecting the phone.

He’s technically the one who got them both into this mess, and Rose isn’t a vindictive sort of person, but maybe the frilled shirts do really look best with that sort of tux. And the Doctor riding into the event on a white horse — well it’s only natural, if his suit is going to reflect elements of the rustic setting, right?

Time blurs into an endless series of meetings, oceans worth of color swatches to choose from and acres worth of vegetarian meal options to try.

Then suddenly it happens — Rose and the Doctor and Joanie all de-boarding a plane one night at the Glasgow airport and bundling into a hired car, driving off into the dark Scottish countryside. Joanie’s asleep on the Doctor, her little arms hanging down by her side and her head resting against his chest. He’s holding Rose’s hand and they’re both staring out the tinted windows at the stars and the rolling hills and the rain.

It’s not long before Rose feels herself dozing off, head lolling back and forth between the window and the Doctor’s shoulder for the duration of the ride.

When they arrive, it’s in front of a small, homey-looking cottage with the silhouette of the castle visible as soon as they exit the car.

Jackie had assured them that there was also room for them to stay in the castle itself if they’d like, but as construction and finishing touches were still happening around the clock, they’d opted out, with promises to reevaluate their lodging the night of the reception.

Now, as Rose ushers the Doctor and a sleeping Joanie through the door of the cottage, she’s reevaluating the reevaluation – it’s gorgeous in here. Even at first glance, everything looks warm and inviting, the perfect blend of rustic appeal and modern amenities.

At Rose’s instruction, the driver deposits their bags in the entryway and departs with a polite goodbye, leaving them alone with the reality of their newest Jackie Tyler-directed adventure.

The Doctor leans down so Rose can give the still-sleeping Joanie a goodnight kiss and then moves father into the cottage to put her down.

There’s meant to be a small bed in one of the rooms for Joanie, and Rose collapses on to the sofa to wait for the Doctor to find it and return.

While she waits, it’s hard not to appreciate the simple elegance of the cottage, and imagine a world where they’d had their wedding night some place like this.

The reality had been lovely – her mum, when she’d finally wound down on reception-planning excitement, had insisted on Joanie staying over, shooing the Doctor and Rose out the door to have the night to themselves.

They spent enough time in hotels while on tour, and had instead opted to head back home – a quiet, empty house decidedly luxury enough.

There were no rose petals or chocolate-covered strawberries, no reverent, hushed undressing or deep, soulful proclamations of love, but there was giddy admiration of the rings on their fingers and gleeful repetition of the words “husband” and “wife.”

There was a round one and a round two, and there was a break in between where the Doctor somehow found someone to sell him chips and a bottle of champagne in the middle of the night.

There was the Doctor’s insistence that they get themselves into as many positions as possible, refusing to settle into one for too long, lest – as he told her – they be locked into it exclusively for the rest of their lives.

There was a point where Rose had enough of that – both times – and set to finishing things in a way where they could see each other’s eyes, and the twin, dopey grins they were both wearing.

There had been muscle cramps and hickeys and stopping things to pee, but most of all there had been a night so perfectly them that Rose wouldn’t have changed a thing.

But still…there would’ve been something to a night in a place like this and, as she falls back asleep on the sofa, her last thought is of which of their friends might stay sober enough to keep Joanie for the night after the reception. 


	2. Chapter 2

  
The next morning, Rose ambles out of the bedroom, rain pattering quietly against the cottage’s thatched roof. She pauses in the lounge to stare through the kitchen door, soaking in the sight of the Doctor sitting in jimjam bottoms and nothing else, feeding Joanie sliced apple and yoghurt at the table. The warm, relaxed feeling from last night is still lingering, comfortable and happy in this place with these people.

Her family.

It wouldn’t be so bad, hiding out here in the cottage for the next few days, just the three of them.

Then she sees the piece of paper waiting on the floor. Someone slid under the front door sometime in the night, apparently. She picks it up and squints at it in the gray morning light — it’s a schedule. Two full days’ worth of activities planned down to the microsecond, teatimes and tee times, deer stalking parties and luncheons, showers and hen nights.

“My mum missed her calling as a cruise director,” Rose grumbles as she shuffles into the kitchen, passing the schedule off to the Doctor and scanning the counters for a coffee machine. It’s one of those pod brewers, and she has it burbling along within a few seconds.

“I know a nice little village not far from here,” the Doctor says brightly, tearing the schedule in half and expertly folding each side into a paper airplane.

The first goes sailing past Rose’s head, into the darkened lounge. Joanie bursts into delighted giggles, clapping and screeching “More, dada!”

He obliges, sending the second after the first, before continuing, “I mean, it’s certainly far enough. There are some moors for exploring, and a pub that serves a brilliant clootie dumpling. Wouldn’t take us more than an hour to get there, if we nick a motor.”

“You a mind-reader or something?” Rose retorts with a smile, cocking an eyebrow at him before she begins opening cabinet doors, searching for a mug. “One cup of coffee before we go on the lam though, yeah?”

Less than a minute later, someone pounds on the cottage door.

It’s the nanny, a woman they’ve often had look after Joanie in London. Rose had no idea that Jackie had arranged for her to come along.

“I’ve got the wee one well in hand,” the woman says, deftly shoo-ing the Doctor away from the kitchen table. “You two had best put some clothes on. The car’ll be round in five minutes to pick you up!”

In fact, it’s two separate cars. The Doctor goes first, whisked away to Rose doesn’t even know where (the answer is likely on the floor of the cottage, folded into an airplane). In her own car, Rose finishes putting on a few touches of makeup in the backseat as the driver chats away, through the village to an ancient two-story stone house that has apparently been transformed into an inn and tea room.

Standing outside the front door of the dark grey building is a woman in a svelte black dress with an elegantly understated floral ribbon belt. A wide-brimmed hat, frilled with black-and-white polka dots and a precariously perched red rose, sits atop her head. She perks up at the sight of the car and comes strutting out to meet them at the sidewalk, holding an umbrella large enough to cover them both.

“Darling!” she calls, pulling Rose into an embrace and kissing her on both cheeks.

“Hullo, Lady Christina,” Rose replies. No one ever calls herChristina, and certainly neverLady de Souza. “You look lovely.”

“Did your luggage get lost?” Lady Christina asks, pulling back and surveying Rose from head to foot, taking in her leggings, jeanskirt, and striped shirt. “It must have. Oh dear heart, it was brave of you to soldier out this morning dressed like this!”

“Um. No. My luggage wasn’t lost.”

“Oh well,” Lady Christina tuts, elegantly plucked eyebrows drawing down in consternation. “We can get it sorted out for you during brunch. I’ll call my people, have them fix your closet for you before you get back to change for high tea this afternoon. In the meantime, lucky for you I brought an extra hat this morning. You can borrow it!” She threads her arm through Rose’s, pulling her toward the inn. “Everyone’s waiting. It’s showtime, Rose!”

~~~~~

The Doctor’s been in the car a full five minutes before the partition between the backseat and the driver’s area is rolled down, revealing a familiar white head of hair and a backward wave.

"Wilf! Oh, it’s good to see you! Why didn’t say something sooner?"

Wilf makes a turn down a nondescript street, at least the tenth turn since they’ve been in the car, and shakes his head so the Doctor can see it.

"Was under strict instructions not to," he calls back. "In fact, I had a tough job even getting that woman to let me drive you at all. She thought I’d be – now, what was it she said? – ‘vulnerable to exploitation?’ Something like that – she thought I’d let you talk me out of staying with the schedule."

In the backseat, relief washes over the Doctor. Rose isn’t in the clear yet, but at leasthe’sfound a way around all this nonsense.

"And you told her thatof courseyou’d keep me on schedule, wouldn’tdreamof deviating? Oh, Wilf, I could kiss you. So, where are we off to first? Trading in golf for a trip to the pub? Movie theatre? We’ve got to make sure it’s somewhere Jackie won’t look –”

Up front, Wilf clears his throat. “Uh, we’re off to the barber.”

The Doctor waves him off. “No, no, that’s no good, I don’t need a haircut. And that wouldn’t take long anyway, I need some place I can really hole up, wait this whole thing out.”

Wilf scratches at the back of his head. “No, we’re off to the barber. It’s on the schedule, that’s…I have to stick to it, Doctor.”

There’s a long moment of silence as the Doctor processes what this means, realizing that there’s no escape for him either, his exits – and his allies – have been cut off.

The Doctor scoffs. “After all we’ve been through? Wilf.Wilf. This is – this is abetrayal, that’s what this is. You’re betraying me.”

Wilf pulls to a stop on the side of the road, turning around to face the Doctor.

"She’s scary," Wilf says. "Like Donna, only I know Donna wouldn’t really hurt me. This one…I’m not so sure."

The Doctor frowns, shaking his head and waving a hand in the air. “Come on now, Jackie’s not going toactuallyhurt you. You’re practically family, she’s all bark and no –”

Wilf interrupts, “Jackie? No, no, this isn’t about Jackie Tyler. This is Lady Christina. That woman is a force of nature.”

The awe in Wilf’s voice does not go unnoticed and the Doctor knows a lost cause when he sees it. His next best hope is legging it out a back door somewhere. With a sigh, he relents.

"Fine, let’s go to the barber."

It only takes a few minutes more before they’re pulling up to a classic looking-barber shop – one that somehow manages to still seem expensive.

It’s not that he’s opposed to a nice haircut – and maybe a shave, he’s not entirely sure the plan here – it’s just beingtoldhe’s got to get one, that’s what’s irritating.

Before he can work himself into an even bigger sulk, Wilf is opening the door and leading him into the barbershop.

There’s a cluster of chairs at the front and they’re all full, everyone peering to look at the Doctor as he walks in.

His eyes widen in recogntion and a smile spreads itself across his face.

Well, if he has to do this, at least his friends do, too.

Jack Harkness appears to be holding court, entertaining everyone with a story — the Doctor only catches the last few words “… I told her, sorry ma’am, I only do that on Tuesdays!” There’s laughter from the other guys there: Mickey, Adam, Jake, and Lee. The Doctor feels like he’s just stepped into an episode of This Is Your Life.

A chorus of “Doctor!” greets him.

“Beginning to think you might’ve jumped ship on the way to Scotland,” Jake says, standing up and sticking out his hand. They perform a half-handshake, half-high five that ends in a shoulder bump bearing a vague, manly resemblance to a hug.

“I had the taser ready, just like Lady Christina told me to, in case he tried to bolt when I opened the car door,” Wilf says, settling down into a chair next to Lee.

“So what’s this all about?” the Doctor asks, looking around the barber’s shop. “Shave and a trim?”

“Didn’t you get your schedule?” Adam says, drawing a folded piece of paper from his jeans pocket and waving it so it crackles.

“That’s — ahh — that’s Rose’s department,” the Doctor replies. He’d skimmed the complicated schedule grid when Rose shoved it in front of him this morning, but he’d been far more interested in seeing how far the heavyweight linen-like paper would fly, given proper wing design.

“Are we finally all here?” The voice, reedy and resounding with a strong Italian accent, comes from the single door inside the shop. A man appears right after. Short, with carefully-coiffed spikes of black hair and a ruddy complexion, he beams at the group of them. “Ah yes, the man of the hour! Doctor! I’m your personal stylist for the weekend. My friends call me Bannakaffalatta.” He extends a hand.

The Doctor shakes it enthusiastically. “A pleasure. Oof, we’ll never get anything done today with that mouthful, though. Can I call you Banna? Or Ban? That’s good, Ban!”

“No,” the man replies, with the practiced sternness of someone who has this precise conversation a tiresome amount. “It’s Bannakaffalatta.”

“Bannakaf —?”

“–falata,” he replies, nodding patiently.

“Bannakaffalatta,” the Doctor repeats dutifully. “Blimey.”

Bannakaffalatta steps back, squinting up at the Doctor before he surveys the other assembled men behind him. “Well, we’ve got our work cut out for us don’t we? And only a few hours before you’re all due at the castle for high tea. Right. Doctor, and you” — he points at Lee — “into the chairs. Everyone else, wait your turn.”

“I don’t need a haircut. I’ve been experimenting with a new backcombing thing that Rose really likes, I’d rather not —”

“Sit,” Bannakaffalatta barks, and the Doctor’s ass is in the barber’s chair before his brain has caught up. A second barber, apparently the proprietor of the shop, comes out to handle Lee’s curls.

There’s a creeping sense of horror and inevitability that begins at the base of his spine, and spreads to the rest of him, as Bannakaffalatta pulls out a plastic cape to cover the Doctor’s clothes and snatches up a pair of scissors. It’s the sort of feeling you have once you’re strapped into the roller coaster and you’ve realized that you’ve made a mistake, you’d much rather be riding the Teacups instead, but it’s far far too late, your fate is already sealed.

He’s holding his breath, eyes closed and braced for impact when he’s hit with a spray of water.

His eyes pop open to see Bannakaffalatta has palmed the scissors and is wetting his hair with a spray bottle and working it through with his fingers.

Their reflection in the mirror shows Bannakaffalatta scrutinizing the hair closely, tousling it in a way that the Doctor would usually find relaxing, but that today is only serving to ratchet up his anxiety.

Bannakaffalatta opens and closes the scissors still in his free hand and the sound is like the cocking of a gun, loud and ominous and there’s his fate, all loaded up in the chamber and just waiting to be unleashed.

The scissors cut through the air a few more times, Bannakaffalatta bringing them closer and closer to his hair and the Doctor’s got images of every terrible haircut he’s ever had dancing like stars through his vision.

He hasn’t been asked what he’d like, just a trim, a little off the top, nothing, instead Bannakaffalatta appears to be operating under his own plans, or Lady Christina’s, or – oh, god –Jackie Tyler’s.

Unclenching his teeth, he swallows and then opens his mouth to protest. He’ll be a sport up to a point, but not this – not where his hair is concerned.

"Now, listen –" he says, but the noise is swallowed up as the shop’s door bangs open and Donna charges through.

"Stop!" Her voice, which carries well in even the quietest of situations, is even more disarming when she means to be loud and Bannakaffalatta pauses the movement of the scissors, blades open around the first piece of hair. A piece, the Doctor notes in the mirror, that is entirely too large and too short.

"What’s the meaning of this?" Bannakaffalatta says.

"This," Donna says and points at the Doctor, "is his wedding present – well, their wedding present, Rose loves that hair as much as he does.”

Before Bannakaffalatta can protest, the Doctor’s up out of the chair, wrapping Donna in a hug that’s made even more dramatic with the barber’s cape around him.

"Thank you, Donna!" He pulls back to press a big kiss to her cheek. "It’s perfect, best wedding present ever. He was going to cut my hair.”

Donna shrugs him off, rolling her eyes. “I know, you big dumbo, that’s why I’m here. Caught a glimpse of the blokes’ schedule during brunch and thought, ‘oh, this won’t end well.’”

The Doctor sweeps her up into another hug, but keeps it brief – wouldn’t do to anger Donna right into putting him back in that chair.

"I’m so glad you’re here – and not just because of the haircut," he says when he releases her.

Before she can respond, Jack’s barreling across the shop, sweeping her up into another hug. “And I am, too!”

“Easy there, big boy,” Donna replies, patting him on the back.

She’s staring over Jack’s shoulder at Lee, a twinkle in her eye, and silently mouths “Hey.” Lee smiles back, his entire countenance lighting up beneath the mop of damp curls atop his head, and mouths the same word in return.

Things between Donna and Jack have been on and off for years — mostly off, recently. Jack was never the sort to settle down, and Donna’s been spending quite a bit of time going back and forth between Las Vegas since they met a certain fireman there twelve months ago. The Doctor isn’t sure what sort of discussions have happened between any of them, exactly who’s dating who, except he does know Jack’s got a new intern for his radio show named Ianto that he keeps going on about.

The Doctor also knows that look on Lee’s face when he looks at Donna — the same sort of look the Doctor imagines he’s been wearing since he met Rose Tyler.

“Now Donna, this is the men’s schedule you’re barging right into. Does that Christina woman know where you are?” Wilf says, bushy eyebrows lifting from behind a Classic Cars Digest dated Spring 1996.

“She thinks I’m in the loo,” Donna replies with a smirk. “Or at least she did fifteen minutes ago, before I climbed out the window in the ladies’ at that tea shop. No telling where she thinks I am by now.”

“That’s my Donna.” The Doctor pats her shoulder proudly. “And like I was saying, I’m so glad you’re here.”

“Fine, we’ll leave the length,” Bannakaffalatta huffs from behind the Doctor, and there’s a hand on his shoulder yanking backward until he topples back into the barber’s chair. The other barber doesn’t seem phased by anything that’s been going on in the last few minutes; he’s still happily trimming away at Lee’s curls. “But really we’re on a tight schedule. Now keep still, let me see what I can do with this crow’s nest.”

With all the tugging that’s going on, the Doctor’s sure that Bannakaffalatta has decided to rip his hair out, since he’s been forbidden to cut it. Eyes watering from the pain, the Doctor waves Donna closer, until he can whisper with her where the others won’t hear.

“You have everything arranged for tomorrow night? Just like we talked about?” he asks.

Donna shoots a conspiratorial look toward Mickey, and Mickey nods in silent affirmation to some unasked question. “Everything is in order,” she whispers back, “except the bit where Rose is going to be sleeping at the castle tonight. Jackie and Lady Christina are insisting. I’ve met some hardasses in my time, but dealing with those two together, it’s like banging my head against the arse of Michelangelo’s David.”

The Doctor stares at her, mouth agape.

Donna finally rolls her eyes. “Oi shut it, Rock Boy, you try coming up with a decent metaphor after being force-fed clotted cream and scones all morning. I’ve got the stuff coming out of my ears. Rose is sleeping at the castle, and that’s that, there’s no getting around it.”

“And I’m at the cottage, then.”

“That’s the plan.”

“It’s positively primeval. Rose and I have had a baby together, it’s not like we haven’t slept in the same bed before. What’s the point of keeping us apart the night before the big celebration?”

Donna shrugs. “Fine. You try getting around it, then, because I’ve pulled out all the stops and Jackie and Lady Christina aren’t budging on the issue.”

“Does Rose know yet?”

“Jackie was about to tell her just after I left brunch,” Donna replies.

~~~~~

Inside the cottage, Rose is standing inside her and the Doctor’s bedroom, staring at an empty wardrobe. Everything of hers is gone — her makeup from the bathroom counter, her shoes from the foot of the bed, her bras and knickers from the drawers. Every scrap of it, spirited away.

“My people have filtered out the things that were unsuitable,” Lady Christina assures her from the doorway. “And everything’s waiting for you at the castle. I told you there was no reason to stop by here.” She takes Rose gently by the shoulders and steers her through the cottage toward the car outside. “Now come along, darling, we’re going to be late!”

The driver’s holding the car door open and Rose seats herself with a bit more force than necessary, scooting down to make room for Lady Christina, who seats herself gracefully,of course.

They’re back on what Rose is learning is the village’s main road in a matter of minutes and Rose watches the scenery roll by, wondering if the Doctor’s in any of the businesses they’re passing.

"Am I going to see my husband any time soon? You realize he’s already my husband, right? There’s no reason for any of this separation? And certainly not overnight."

Lady Christina arches an eyebrow at her. “Hmm, well, yes, itisunfortunate that your actual wedding ceremony was so…quaint, but that’s no reason to not make the best of this reception, and that includes a little bit of tradition.”

Rose forcibly stops herself from rolling her eyes. It’s been a constant battle these past few hours to remember that she agreed to go along with all of this, that it’s about her mum and her friends, and that she and the Doctor have people that love them and want to celebrate that love with them and, oh, fuck, this was a terrible idea and it’s just too late to put a stop to it.

She pulls a copy of the schedule – laminated this time – from the back of the seat in front of her, glancing at it. “And ‘tradition’ includes…am I reading this right? The Doctor’s going to awoodworking class?”

Lady Christina plucks the schedule from Rose’s hands, pointing to the corresponding calendar entry with a perfectly manicured fingertip.

"Yes, and you will be attending a baking class," she says.

Rose’s eyes widen. “Baking? And he gets to play with power tools? Isn’t that a little sexist?”

The schedule disappears from view once more, this time tucked into Lady Christina’s expensive-looking briefcase.

"Your mother was especially delighted by the baking class – you’ll be learning to make a tart, something like your – I believe it was your Grandma Prentice? – would make when your mother was young? But if you’d like to protest, I can make a call and the classes can easily be switched…I’m sure your Grandma Prentice was also brilliant with a circular saw."

Guilt unpacks itself in Rose’s chest once more and she shrugs. “Baking will be fine,” she says.

Lady Christina nods curtly, as if she expected that answer all along and is glad to see Rose has finally caught up.

As the car pulls to a stop in front of lavishly decorated restaurant, Rose and Lady Christina exit out on to the street once more, and Lady Christina continues the conversation, as if they’d never stopped.

"Honestly, Rose, we left that schedule under your door this morning for a reason. I’d almost think you hadn’t looked at it at all, except your footwear indicates that you at least got to the kickboxing workshop."

Rose’s toes curl inside her trainers and then she’s following Lady Christina through the front door of the restaurant and back into the kitchen.

The cooking class passes in a flash — it’s amazing how entertaining something can be with friends along for the ride. Lady Christina slips away after the first ten minutes, no doubt off to manage whatever activities are coming down the pipeline. That leaves Rose, Donna (who has finally reappeared from her record-setting nose powdering session), Martha, and Jackie. The woman who owns the restaurant is a local, and their time is more enjoyable than Rose would have expected.

She’s beginning to think that maybe this weekend won’t be so bad.

Then the cooking session finishes, and the women are whisked off to the castle.

Approximately a quarter of Rose’s things have been relocated to a plush suite in one of the turrets. A barrel-round room, with a massive antique four-poster bed dripping with curtains and tassels, sits beside a large makeup table covered in makeup pots and powders from a boutique in France. A couch and chairs fill the center of the room. On the far side of the bed lurks an elaborately carved wardrobe. Rose is certain it must lead to Narnia.

Instead of containing a magical portal, the cabinet is full of haute couture. Frocks for every occasion, tea gowns and ball gowns and a selection of elaborate lingerie color-coordinated for each outfit.

It’s not that the clothes are ugly. They’re stunning. Rose picks up a few and holds them against herself, measuring, and of course they fit like a glove. Because no matter what else Lady Christina might be, she is also every inch a professional.

It’s just that they’re not quite … Rose.

Standing alone in the suite and staring at the wardrobe full of shimmering, expensive dresses, Rose wrestles with the feeling that she’s stepped back into her 16-year-old self. The one whose public image was managed down to her earrings. The one who never wore her own guitar on-stage, because it interfered with dance routines that she spent weeks rehearsing in the studio, because the record label insisted she fit into a certain niche, one that catered to a particular audience demographic.

The one who hadn’t discovered everything she was capable of, because she hadn’t met the Doctor yet.

Frowning, Rose steps away from the wardrobe and takes a deep, steadying breath.

It has been a long time since she let herself be content taking what’s handed to her, instead of reaching for something better. That isn’t going to change, just because her Mum and Lady Christina are in charge.

Even if she’s locked away in a tower in a castle, she damn well isn’t going to act like a damsel in distress.

Rose uses every second of the thirty minutes she’s been allocated before she has to appear for tea, mixing and matching, altering and cinching. When the makeup artist shows up at her door, she sends him away. (He seems a bit panicked at the prospect, and she has flash of Lady Christina as the Red Queen, calling him into account like one of her playing-card soldiers who failed to paint the Rose the proper color. Off with his head! She promises not to tell Lady Christina that she didn’t use his services, and gives him the crystal decanter full of whiskey from beside the couch for good measure.) 


	3. Chapter 3

  
~~~~~

Woodworking class was mostly a success, and now Joanie has an array of only slighty misshapen wooden animal toys to drag around, and Jack has something also slightly misshapen, or possibly entirely correctly shaped, and the Doctor doesn’t need to know either way, thank you very much.

But now – now they’re at a golf course, of all places, and it is the opposite of a success.

It is a failure.  
Well, it had started as a success, everyone agreeing on the rules of “New Golf,” and the stakes:

\- No rules  
\- Everybody drinks  
\- Loser decided by popular vote 

But it had ended with Adam vomiting on the 8th tee, and brought them swiftly to where they are now – being escorted from the course while other golfers stare and point and take photos.

Honestly, you’d think such a posh course would have a system in place for dealing with intoxicated golfers and for preventing evidence of the inebriation from being recorded.

It’s not the eviction that’s creating the failure though, it’s that, in addition to the 8th tee, Adam also vomited a tiny bit on the Doctor. It answers a question the Doctor’s had for a little while now, though – was he, in light of all the bodily fluids he’s dealt with coming out of Joanie, more immune to this sort of thing now?

No. The answer is a resounding no.

All of this means, as they’re dumped unceremoniously at the valet, is that instead of moving on to the next stop – base-jumping or opium den or puppet theatre, who can know at this point – the Doctor’s being routed back to their cabin, while everyone else heads back to the castle to change.

It’s a short, smelly trip, as the driver, Nathan, apparently operating under instructions from Lady Christina refuses to roll down the windows, and by the time they make it back to the cabin, both Nathan and the Doctor are nearly gagging.

The Doctor tumbles out of the car in a hurry, barreling through the front door of the cabin and into the bedroom, strippnig off his clothing on the way.

It’s only when he’s finally left the offending garments behind that he’s able to fully comprehend what’s wrong inside the cabin – all of Rose’s stuff is gone.

A shock of dread speeds down his spine and he tries to ignore it. There has to be an explanation for this, nothing terrible has happened to Rose, he just needs to relax, and breathe, and calm down, and call Rose and Jackie and Lady Christina and the military and the American military and where is his wife?

(A couple of years ago, Rose accused him of becoming overprotective in the wake of Joanie’s birth. He cannot even begin to imagine where she got that idea.)

His mobile’s out and pressed to his ear before he finally remembers – Rose isn’t staying at the cabin tonight. Her stuff’s probably just been moved to the castle.

Before he can hang up and try to to slow his breathing, the call connects.

“Your car should be ‘round in half an hour, Doctor. If you consult your schedule, you’ll see we’ve got a rehearsal dinner this evening, and stag night afterward,” Lady Christina says, without even bothering with the formality of a greeting. “No time for dilly-dally. I’ve got a butter sculptor waiting for me over here. Is there something I can do for you?”

The Doctor yanks the mobile away from his ear and stares at the screen in consternation. Yes, hedid press speedial number one. And for some reason, someunholy reason, Lady Christina’s number is programmed there instead of Rose Tyler’s.

It’s like he’s gone through a wormhole to a bizarro version of this planet, a place where he’s stuck with Lady Christina instead of the woman heought to be with.

“What did you do to my mobile?” He’s still so worked up, it doesn’t even ding his pride, how shrill that was coming out of his own mouth.

“Just took a few precautions for the weekend, darling. To ensure everyone stays focused and on track. Jackie assured me you’d be all right with it.”

Jackie Tyler.Jacqueline Andrea Suzette Prentice Tyler.

The Doctor’s flash of red-hot fury is entirely out of proportion, augmented by stress and vague nausea left over from his disastrous, muddy, vomit-filled round of golf. He’s far too gone to remember that he was the one who handed over the reins to his mother-in-law in the first place.

“Where is Rose?!” He can’t tell whether his agitation has added a protective growl to his words; the blood in his ears is too loud. “Where is she?”

“Slow down, tiger,” Lady Christina says with a low laugh. “A few hours apart won’t kill you. She’ll be at dinner, along with everyone else. Surely the legendary Doctor can survive that long all on his own.”

The Doctor isn’t a violent man, but he’s beginning to wonder if everyone will get out of this weekend alive.

Lady Christina is technically telling the truth, Rose is indeed at the fancy dinner in the castle’s cavernous wood-paneled banquet hall. An absurdly long table, with tablecloth and table runner and dozens of place settings of gilded china, is in the center of the room. Rose is seated at one end of the table, high-backed chair right in front of the roaring fireplace; the Doctor is seated at the opposite end, with at least three dozen people and two butter sculptures between them. He can’t even see her over the silver centerpieces laden with flowers. She might as well be in the Sahara, for all he can tell.

Plus, two out of the six courses have included pears. Pears in the salad, and pears in the pork glaze.

The Doctor puts his fork down, forcing himself to swallow his one and only bite of the pork. He picks up his wine glass and waves it at the nearest server, for another refill.

Rose’s laugh echoes at him from the other side of the room, like a ghostly taunt. The Doctor has gone the short distance from angry to sullen. There are things he needs to tell Rose, to show Rose. Things like the wooden animals he made for Joanie, and how they ought to limit Adam’s access to the drinks cart on the next tour, and how he’s been thinking about that little spot below her right ear all day.

Sitting next to him, Mickey is excitedly going on about the stag party — apparently he and Jack were given full rein in planning their night out.

It’s clear from the way neither of them is asking for his input that none of this is up for debate, it’s all strictly for informational purposes only. Before he can offer it anyway though, there’s a high-pitched cry from the hallway outside the banquet room.

The Doctor’s up and out of his chair in seconds – that sounded like Joanie, and the rapid fluttering in his heart, the heat on the back of his neck, all the unconscious parental cues that still surprise him years later, confirm it – it was Joanie.

He’s ducking around waiters and assistants and the next course as his limbs propel him faster and faster toward his daughter. He reaches the doorframe the same instant Rose does and they share a split-second look before pushing into the hall.

Rose turns left and he turns right, but all he can see is an ornately decorated, but empty corridor.

Then there’s a tug on his shirt sleeve, and he’s being pulled the opposite direction.

"There she is," Rose says, and they’re off down the hall as they see Joanie’s trainer disappear around a corner.

They both sprint after her, skidding around the same corner a few seconds later, just in time to hear Joanie cry out again, and see her do it this time.

She’s laughing.

A high-pitched, delighted shriek of a laugh as the nanny does a silly walk and pulls a silly face, and, oh, Joanie’s nothurt, she’s enthralled.

The clatter’s caught her attention though, and she turns away from the nanny, catching sight of the Doctor and Rose, and barreling back down the hallway toward them.

"Mama! Da-a-a-a-a!" She draws the word out as she runs and they both squat down to greet her. She catches an arm around each of their necks, and climbs haphazardly into their laps, cuddling and laughing.

The Doctor catches sight of Rose’s outfit as he cuddles Joanie back and it’s lovely, nothing he’s ever seen before, but lovely all the same…and getting dirty as Joanie drags her feet across it.

He sweeps Joanie into his arms, standing up to seat her on his hip and reaching to help Rose stand as well.

Rose crowds into them, pressing kisses to Joanie’s cheeks and smoothing down her hair, and there’s one, quiet happy moment where they’re all three grinning. Then the nanny corners them from one side, and Lady Christina from the other.

"Come now, Doctor, Rose," Lady Christina says. "As you can see, Joanie is being well taken care of and enjoying herself. You two, however, are missing the dessert course."

Joanie, in an act of betrayal the Doctor intends to bring up at her graduation from university, squirms out of his arms, reaching for the nanny, and is promptly plucked away.

"Bye-bye," she says pleasantly, waving at the Doctor and Rose as the nanny escorts her farther down the hall and around another corner.

Lady Christina clears her throat. “As I was saying,” she gestures back to the banquet hall, “dessert is waiting.”

She turns on her heels and begins the short walk back, trusting the Doctor and Rose will follow.

The Doctor doesn’t move. Neither does Rose. His gaze roves over her. “Blimey.”

To his surprise, her cheeks turn pink and she draws back a little, arms crossing. “Don’t laugh!”

“You look beautiful,” he hastens to clarify. “Considering.”

The smile that had begun to form on her lips freezes. “Considering? Oi, this is haute couture.”

“Considering you don’t have a pink hoodie to set off that sequined dress.”

The smile finishes traveling across Rose’s lips, her expression full of amusement. “I think that’s a compliment. Doesn’t look like they repossessed your wardrobe for the weekend. You didn’t even change.”

“Changed my trainers,” the Doctor protests, sticking a foot out to show off his crimson Chucks. “And the suit’s blue instead of brown. I made an effort.”

“Lady Christina looked like she wanted to murder you, when you didn’t show up in a tux.”

“Well, yeah,” he says, tugging at his collar. “Never been a big fan of the tux. Bad things tend to happen. Like that celebrity cruise I did a while back.”

Rose laughs. The Doctor is feeling strange, as if touching Rose would be ungentlemanly. As if the removal of all traces of her from the cottage has put some emotional distance between them. As if she wouldn’t welcome him pinning her up against the wall to lick his way across her chest.

Not that the thought hasn’t graphically occurred to him.

“This weekend isn’t what I was expecting,” Rose says in a quiet rush, like it’s a secret. She waves her hands close to her hips, like she’s trying to catch words from the air. “I expected it to be … over-the-top and ridiculous, because it’s my mum. But I wasn’t expecting to feel — oh, I don’t even know the word for it. Disappointed?”

The Doctor nods a fraction.

“I know you didn’t want to make a fuss, but now that the fuss is being made on our behalf, I just — I wish it was the sort of celebration that means something for us. Instead of for my mum, or for the press, or our friends, or whatever.”

Leave it to Rose — his brilliant Rose — to articulate the emotions the Doctor can’t even begin to comprehend. The ones that have been churning through his head and heart all day.

“And it’s worse because we aren’t sharing all these things,” the Doctor says. “They’ve got you locked up in here, and both of us running opposite directions, like it’s some sort of game or something. Keeping us apart.”

“Yeah! Exactly! Everything about this situation just feels off.” Rose puts her thumb to her mouth, nibbling her nail and shooting a look down the corridor. “Her Ladyship’s going to call in the swat team if we don’t come back to supper.”

Sure enough, Lady Christina is standing at the doorway to the banquet hall, one hand on a hip and staring alternately at her watch and them. The toe of one Manolo Blahnik taps the flagstones impatiently.

"Yeah, I guess you’re right," he says. "Are you sure you want to go through with this? That nanny can’t have gotten far, I’m sure we could grab Joanie and make a break for it. Even if we don’t make it out of the castle, we can hide out somewhere for a little while. You reckon they have a library or something?"

Rose laughs. “I’m sure they have a library, and I’m sure it’s been stocked wall-to-wall with books about why disobeying your wedding planner is a bad idea. C’mon, let’s just go back. Only, what, 30 more hours until this is all over and we can go home?”

She sticks her hand out for him to hold and he takes it instantly as they set off down the hall.

"Right, yeah, home," he says. "A nice trip…home.”

~~~~~

There’s something to the Doctor’s voice, a tone she’s spent years and years associating with not getting the whole truth, but if there’s some sort of construction happening at their house, some catastrophe waiting for her, she doesn’t want to think about it now.

Defiantly meeting Lady Christina’s eye, Rose and the Doctor re-enter the banquet hall. He goes to release her hand and make the long trip back to the opposite end of the table, but Rose brings him toward her with a tug.

She leans up and presses a kiss to his lips, smiling against them briefly before pulling back to nudge her nose against his.

"Love you," she says.

"Love you, too," he returns.

Then she’s being escorted back to her seat by a waiter.

The rest of the meal passes quickly and soon all the women are piling into a limousine and Lady Christina is thankfully,wonderfully, nowhere in sight.

"I told Lady Christina I’d handle this part," her mum says, when she notices Rose looking around. "Mother of the bride’s privilege to throw the bridal shower."

Donna leans across the aisle of the limousine as it begins to move. “And best mate’s privilege to combine it with the start of the hen party!”

Rose is already beginning to feel better, more like herself and less like a puppet on strings, and she slips into relaxing, accepting a glass of champagne from Martha as the car ride continues.

Her mood only improves as the limo pulls up in front of a chip shop. Only – “Mum, we just ate,” she says.

"Did we? Or did we all just pretend to eat and shuffle the food with our forks?" Her mum smiles and Rose feels a rush of affection. She should’ve known she could count on her mum.

"That posh business is fun for a while," her mum says, "but this is always going to be more our speed, isn’t it?"

Rose agrees with a grin and they all exit the limo as the door to the chip shop swings open, a friendly-looking bloke ushering them inside.

Rose is the last to enter and she has to laugh as she takes in the space. It looks like they’ve got the whole thing to themselves, not another customer in sight, and a pile of presents on a table near the back wall.

The kicker, though, are the garish hen party decorations adorning every available surface – silhouettes of brawny men, penises, hot pinkeverything– and this time when Rose wonders what she’s gotten herself into, it’s with excitement.

The chips are divine, perfectly greasy and salty. The presents are exactly what Rose would have chosen for herself — not the traditional dishes and crystal claptrap, because she and the Doctor already have all of that they could ever need. Lingerie, a box full of her favorite guitar picks, gift certificates to her favorite spa in London, all the little things she could want. The penis cake is, surprisingly, gourmet. It is, not surprisingly, vanilla cream-filled.

After the chip shop, everyone bundles into a limo and they wind through the streets of the village to a second stop. This one’s a pub, and although it isn’t normally set up for karaoke, apparently Martha made special arrangements with the owner for the evening. They have drinks with fruit and umbrellas, and drinks without. They sing — Donna most, and loudest — and laugh and shriek and Rose finds herself having a genuinely good time. So good, as a matter of fact, that she doesn’t mind the fact that she won’t see the Doctor again until tomorrow, and she begins to come to terms with the way this entire wedding weekend is happening.

Just after midnight, Donna staggers up to Rose with a blindfold.

“All right, blondie, now the real fun begins,” she says, reaching out to put it over Rose’s eyes.

“And that’s my cue to leave,” Jackie says from the barstool next to Rose. She leans over and kisses Rose on the cheek. “Don’t let things get too out of control, would you? And be sure to get some beauty rest, love.”

Rose grabs her mum and pulls her into a hug. “Thank you, Mum. Tonight has been wonderful.”

Jackie hugs her back and makes a noise — Rose can’t see her face, with Donna tying the blindfold at the back of her head, but it’s a happy noise. “I love you, sweetie.”

With that, Jackie’s gone. Which is strange, come to think of it — Rose would have assumed that her mum would want to stay for the male strippers.

“Up we go now,” Donna says, guiding Rose by the elbow. She expects to be led over to a chair and sat down in front of the little stage. Instead, they keep walking until the warm air of the pub gives way to the clammy Scottish evening outside.

“What the hell are you up to?” Rose asks, blindly feeling in front of her. Her hands meet the limo.

“You couldn’t pry it out of me with a crowbar,” Donna replies smugly. “Maybe you could pry it out with a few more gin and tonics, though.” Martha laughs somewhere behind them.

The drive in the limo this time is much longer, winding over and across the hilly village, and Rose is just beginning to get queasy — and contemplating whether to demand to have the blindfold removed — when they finally come to a stop.

They bundle out of the limo and into the cold night air again. There’s more walking, shuffling over uneven ground and whispering between the women around her.

“Stick your arms out,” Martha says.

Rose complies. Martha proceeds to put some sort of vest over her chest, covering her dress. “What the hell is all this? Where are the strippers?”

Donna guffaws. “Hold this.” She puts something metal into Rose’s hands, just as Martha moves around to take off the blindfold.

Rose is holding a paintball gun, standing in a grove of darkened forest. She can just see the lights of the castle through the trees — they’re on the grounds.

~~~~~

In a way, the Doctor’s grateful to get this over with right at the start of the night.

Marched from the limo and through a set of opaque glass doors, the Doctor takes one look at the various stages, and the nearly nude women on them, and turns right back around.

"Nope," he says. "Nope."

Mickey and Jake laugh, dutifully trooping out behind him, clearly having expected things to go this way, and Adam’s still on his best behavior from the vomiting earlier and follows, too.

But Jack, Jack holds out, planting his feet at the entrance to the club, and gesturing to the space in front of him.

"Oh, come on, just for a little while," Jack says. "You don’t even need to get a dance, this istradition.”

The Doctor shakes his head. “Nope. I’m not spending the night before my wedding, well, weddingreception, in a strip club.”

Jack’s shoulders fall and he slumps back to the door, trying one final time. “What about –”

The Doctor cuts him off. “Listen, Jack, if you want to stay, be my guest. I’d be more than happy to leave you behind at the – ” he squints at the neon sign over the bar ” – the ‘Game Station,’ but I’m not sticking around. Your call.”

Jack sighs. “Fine.”

"Brilliant," the Doctor says with a grin, and ducks back into the limo, waiting as the other blokes do the same.

"Wilf," Mickey calls up to the front, "he didn’t go for it, let’s try the next stop."

The limo pulls back onto the streets and this time when they stop, it’s in front of a large, posh house, a small sign indicating its status as a gentlemen’s club on the door.

"Cigars and scotch, Doctor," Jack says. "Is that more your speed?"

The Doctor nods, smiling, and time passes pleasantly in a haze of single malts and smoke.

He’s directed to pick out a box of cigars and a bottle of something to take home as gifts from Jake and Mickey, and Adam, inexplicably, has bought him a necktie.

Jack, far less inexplicably and, in fact,predictably, has bought him a pair of handcuffs, and two embroidered silk blinkfolds – one that reads, “Mrs. Doctor,” and another that reads “Mr. Rose.”

Soon, they’re back on the road and one of the blindfolds is being applied to his eyes while his hands are cuffed behind him.

"Oi, Mickey," the Doctor says. "I figured I’d get to break this stuff in with my wife, what’s going on?"

Mickey laughs, “Believe me, I’m not trying to take that honor from Rose, this is just temporary, until the next stop.”

The next stop takes another fifteen minutes, but then he’s being escorted out of the car and into the open air.

Something heavy is strapped around his chest, and there’s laughter, but it sounds distinctly feminine.

The Doctor’s head whips around, vision still blocked by the blindfold. “I thought I said no strippers? Come on, take this off.”

The laughter breaks off and Donna’s voice fills the air around him just as the blindfold is removed.

"Oi! Who’s a stripper?"

The Doctor immediately backpedals because Donna is holding a large gun. “Nothing, no one, not that there’s anything wrong with stripping or dancing or…or…why do you have a gun?”

His handcuffs are released and he only has a moment to flex his wrists before he’s being handed a similar-looking gun.

"There, now you have one, too," Martha says. "Everybody’s got ‘em – we’re playing paintball!"

The Doctor looks around the group, all of his friends attired in vests and helmets, and Rose, Rose is there, too, right at the edge of crowd and smiling at him with that tongue-touched grin.

"It’s everybody for themselves," Jake says. "And we’ve all decided, if one of you win, we’ll cover for you, so you can spend the night together."

Jack leans in. “Otherwise, we’re gonna help the dragon store your bride in the castle for the evening.” He turns to the rest of them. “Everybody ready? Ten minutes to get into position, listen for the whistle, and…go!”

His friends take off, running scattered in every direction. They’re on the castle grounds, in a small forest, and he loses sight of them quickly before darting off on his own and taking shelter behind a fallen tree.

The whistle blows and the game begins, the sound of running periodically punctuated by shots from the guns.

Adam attempts to leap over the log the Doctor’s crouched behind, and the Doctor gets a shot off right to his arse as he lands, the blue paint splattering over his trousers.

There are clues to the rest of them if he listens hard enough – Donna takes Jack out, Mickey’s done in by Jake, but Jake’s done in by Martha.

He leaves the cover of his log to pick Donna off in a shot that’s only got one chance at – if he misses, it’ll alert her to his location, and there’s no way she’ll let him get away.

The shot zips by Donna’s shoulder and he groans internally, but before she can start off toward him, Martha’s gotten Donna right in the chest. It’s only a brief reprieve though, because now he’s in a stand-off with Martha, guns pointed as they circle each other, mindful of the debris on the ground.

He’s beginning to weigh the advantages of shooting quickly and ducking when he catches a glint from behind Martha. He tries to keep his face casual as Rose comes into view, finger pressed to her lips as she winks at the Doctor.

Quicker than he see, she lurches toward Martha, popping a shot right into the middle of Martha’s back plate as Martha stomps her foot slightly.

"Oh, come on!"

Mickey appears from behind one of the trees, slinging an arm around Martha’s shoulders.

"It’s all right, babe," he says, pressing a kiss to her head.

The rest of the group joins them in the small clearing, and Jack does a quick count.

"It’s one of you, then," he says, gesturing to Rose and the Doctor. "One of you has to shoot the other, then we’ll have a winner. Good news is, it’s within the rules, we’ll run interference and help get you both back to the cabin together."

The Doctor looks at Rose, the twigs sticking to the skirt of her sequined dress, the messy hair, and flushed cheeks, and he wants to spend the night with her. He always wants to spend the night with her.

But…there’s something to be said for it, for the anticipation of spending a night apart, for the build up to after the reception. They’d said they didn’t need any of this stuff, but now that they’ve got it anyway, he finds he wants to do it right.

Catching Rose’s eye, he mouths, “Together,” and Rose looks confused before nodding and smiling sweetly.

They both position their guns to point at the most padded part of the other’s vest.

"On three," he says. "One – two –three!”

The shots go off simultaneously, colliding in a flurry of paint. It’s impossible to tell whose hit first.

"What’d you do that for?" Jack says. "That’s a draw! Now neither of you win!"

gallifreyburning:

Rose pulls off her helmet and goggles, dropping them to the ground, before shrugging off her vest. She’s haphazardly spattered with paint of all colors, save for her torso and around her eyes. Stepping over to the Doctor, she lifts the goggles and helmet off his head, then unzips his vest so he can shrug out of it.

“Well, that’s it then,” she says, arms sliding aroun his waist. The paint on both their clothes makes them sticky and warm in the clammy night air.

“Until tomorrow,” the Doctor replies.

Rose stretches up onto her toes and presses a gentle, soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. He moves to follow her lips as she pulls away, but she dips her head just enough to stay out of reach.

“That one was for Joanie. Tell her I love her when she wakes up.”

His lips are tingling, they taste like cod liver oil and coloring. The heavy scent of heather in the night air doesn’t do much to alleviate the smell of the paint, either.

“This one is for you,” Rose continues, arms drawing around his waist. Her paint-splattered mouth meets his again, but this time she doesn’t pull away so quickly. The slippery sequins of her dress scratch the pads of his fingers as he grips the tight fabric clinging to her hips.

She smiles against his skin, lips opening a little, and a giggle bubbles out of her. “God, this stuff tastes awful.”

“Better than the pork at supper,” the Doctor retorts, surging forward to complete the kiss properly. Lips open, tongues moving in patterns that have been perfected over the course of years. The bottoms of his feet are prickling, the back of his neck burning, and he’s already calculating which hard surface he can get Rose up against quickest.

“Oh lord, someone get a hose.” It registers in the back of his mind that was Donna’s voice.

“C’mon, Doctor, you need your beauty rest,” Jack says. It sounds like a low buzz behind the blood pounding in his ears.

Rose is giggling again, right into his mouth, her chest jumping with each sharp release of air. “I think we’re making a spectacle of ourselves.”

“Mmmm, good. All according to plan.”

“Goodnight, Doctor.” One last kiss, a small swipe of tongue across his bottom lip, and she slips out of his arms.

“Until tomorrow.”

“Behave yourself,” Rose says, the most brilliant grin plastered across her face.

“Me? Perish the thought.”

With that, Rose leads the ladies through the trees, back toward the lights in the castle windows. She doesn’t glance back, but he stands still and watches her until she disappears into the dark night.

“You’ve got it bad, D-d-doctor,” Lee says, nudging him with an elbow.

“You’re lucky you didn’t have to watch them make googly-eyes at each other the first time they met,” Adam replies cheekily. “Onstage in front of all of Wembley Stadium, even. It was disgusting.”

The Doctor’s not even going to dignify that with a response, mostly because he’s suddenly exhausted, but also because it’s true.

Instead, he says his thank yous and goodbyes and heads back toward the car, while the rest of them troop back toward the castle.

It’s a quiet, short drive and when Wilf drops him off, it’s with instructions to be up and dressed for breakfast in the morning.

He’s got paint and sweat and the smell of cigar smoke clinging to him, so despite his exhaustion, he dismisses the nanny, checks on Joanie in her bed, and peels his clothes off to take a quick shower.

It’s weird, he’s already married to Rose, has spent the last several years living with her, having a family with her, the whole thing, but he still feels vaguely like he’s experiencing a rite of passage – like this night is supposed to mean something.

Whatever it is, it’s enough to keep him awake, anticipation fizzing in his blood. Tonight was supposed to be a night for other things – for staying up late with Rose and picking where they’d go first, for laying the groundwork for her belated wedding present, now it’s truly going to be a surprise, and that, too, is adding to the anticipation.

Unlike today, they won’t see each other at all tomorrow, not until the reception, all their activities and their meals are separate, and he spends time wondering what she’ll do, what she’ll wear wear, if she’ll be thinking the same things about him.

He lets half an hour pass before he gives up on sleep and wanders into Joanie’s room.

The small bed they’d arranged for her is in the corner of the room and Joanie’s got herself pressed up into the corner of the mattress, back to the wall and Mickey Mouse stuffed animal cuddled to her chest as she faces out into the room.

It’s not an ideal fit, but there’s enough space for him to curl up on the bed, and he does, head on the opposite edge of the pillow as he watches Joanie sleep, the bottoms of her feet just grazing his thighs.

Rose always gives him a hard time about this sort of thing, because he’s woken Joanie up more than once, unable to stop himself from brushing her hair out of her face or sweeping a finger down the tiny bridge of her nose.

Tonight, though, he forces himself to be content with just looking. Her tiny little lips are parted slightly, as she inhales and exhales small puffs of air that he can hear more than he can feel. Her eyelashes are long – they’re so, so long – and they brush against her skin in sleep.

She looks like Rose, especially like this, when she stands still long enough to get a good look, but there are bits and pieces, tiny snatches of him he can see, too, and all those parts mixed up together, he and Rose in one person – it’s perfect.

Everywhere he looks, every part of her is perfect, she’s his daughter, he has a daughter and a family and tomorrow he’s going to marry her mum…again…sort of.

Whatever he did to get here, to this exact moment, he wouldn’t change a single decision and it’s not long before the comfort of that thought lulls him to sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

  
The next morning, Rose wakes up in the turret room, snuggled into a four-poster bed covered in fluffy duvets and feather pillows. She stays still for a while, warm beneath the blankets, staring at the curtains draped overhead. It seems somewhat appropriate that she should have spent the night in a castle, like a princess, right before her wedding celebration. What with the fuss and dresses and champagne to come, she’s got a veritable smorgasbord of royal hoops to jump through.

The only thing missing from today’s schedule are a polo match and a coronation.  
The leisurely morning doesn’t last long. A knock at the door, and hardly a pause to wait for “Come in!” before Donna and Martha pile in through the door. Rose is just managing to sit up, swimming her way through the linens.

“So we know you aren’t walking down the aisle today or anything,” Martha says, plopping down onto the bed. The blankets and pillows fluff out with a softwhomp, as though the feathers might burst through the seams at any moment. Rose drags her hands through her hair, pulling flyaways out of her face. “But since we’re celebrating properly, we thought we’d do something for you anyway. Here!”

She holds out a hand, and there in Martha’s palm are a set of simple diamond studs. They are elegant and understated, the setting exquisitely crafted to show off the faceted stones. “Go on, take them! Something borrowed for today.”

“Martha,” Rose breathes, reaching out to touch them. “You wore these at your wedding. I can’t take them!”

“Yeah you can,” Martha replies, depositing them into her hand with a wink. “Mickey got me some bigger ones for our anniversary this year, anyway.”

“And something new!” Donna says, pulling out a pair of pristine white trainers. “I’m sure Lady Christina has some ridiculously pointy-toed stiletto things for your reception this evening, but if your dress is long enough, then what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.”

“Rose! Rose, are you up yet?” calls a voice from the corridor. Jackie.

“Yeah, Mum!”

Jackie comes in. “I didn’t know it was a party already,” she says, smiling at the women gathered around the bed.

“Just getting Rose set up, borrowed and new for the celebration today,” Martha says, standing up and patting her thighs like she’s dusting off her hands from a job well done.

“Lucky you, sweetie, I’ve got the old bit.” Jackie is beaming, she’s absolutely radiant with happiness. “Do you remember these?”

“Dad’s cufflinks,” Rose says, reaching out to take the silver things from her mother. They’re small ovals, with the initials PT engraved in cursive script. “What’s the chain for?”

“He wore these at our wedding,” Jackie says. “I had them made into a necklace. I know we could’ve bought something fancy, but I think these turned out nice.”

Rose’s eyes are warm and watery. She folds the cufflinks into her hand. “They’re perfect, Mum.”

Jackie’s mascara is already running, tears leaking from the corner of her eyes as she reaches out to pull Rose into a hug. “Oh, sweetie, I’m so proud of you.” After a loud sniff right into Rose’s ear, she leans back and to fasten the necklace around Rose’s neck.

“We’ve got a busy day ahead,” Jackie says.

“Spa first,” Donna replies, her enthusiasm evident. “Massages and salt scrubs and seaweed wraps. Do they do that up here in Scotland? Or do they use something like peat moss instead?”

“No spa in this little village,” Jackie replies, standing up after she finishes with Rose’s necklace. Rose follows, hopping out of bed and heading across the room to the wardrobe. Even if it’s a spa morning, she can’t show up in her nightgown. “Lady Christina has brought up a squad of aestheticians from her Sky One program. They’re set up downstairs — I think it used to be the dungeon, of all things!”

Martha and Rose share a look. Martha takes a few steps closer and murmurs in Rose’s ear, “Just remember, today’s a marathon, not a sprint. As your physician, I advise a slow but steady pace. Donna and I will be here all day, to help run interference when needed.”

Rose squeezes her hand. “Thanks.”

~~~~~

It was a hectic morning for the Doctor, starting with a toddler knee to the stomach as Joanie tried to climb over him and get out of bed.

It wouldn’t have been so bad, only a little pain, and it could’ve been much, much worse just slightly lower (and, oh, how it’s been worse like that before, eyes watering as Joanie smiled at him serenely, unaware that he was choking on his testicles), except today, when his eyes popped open in response, they were met with the cold, dead, plastic eyes of Mickey Mouse, and he’d shouted in surprise.

The shouting had caused Joanie to cry, loudly and aimlessly, until she meandered her way into a plea for her mum that insultingly hadn’t abated until the nanny came by.

From there, he’d had to get ready extra quickly to make up for time lost singing all of Joanie’s favorite songs and doing Joanie’s favorite dance and changing the channel on the telly between all of Joanie’s favorite programs, and he’s only just finishing his hair when Wilf knocks on the door of the cottage.

Thankfully, breakfast today is far less of a production than any of his meals here have been so far, just a self-serve buffet table that he and the other blokes make quick work of before being shuffled back off to Bannakaffalatta’s for follow grooming.

It’s a shave today, hot towels, a straight blade, the whole experience, and the Doctor relaxes into it, distantly hoping that wherever Rose is, she’s being pampered similarly.

To his left, Wilf is getting the same treatment and in the background, he can hear his friends talking, waiting their turns, and it occurs to him that this, too, is his family.

He would’ve been happy to have all of these men stand at his side as he married Rose, and he’s happy to have the chance to share it with them tonight, even if the vows have already been said.

In another life, there’d have been one more man here, the one that’s known him the longest, the one that started this whole musical journey with him, but also, the one whose path diverged from his a long time ago now.

It’s not a day for dwelling on his history with the Master though, it’s a day for looking forward to his future with Rose and he spends the rest of the time at the barber shop doing just that.

(Well, doing just that and making fun of how Bannakaffalatta, in frustration, likened the texture of Adam’s hair to that of pubic hair, but, honestly, really, mostly the Rose thing.)

There’s not much on the schedule for the blokes for the rest of the day, not until the reception, and he ends up in the library of the castle (thankfully devoid of anything penned by Lady Christina), trying to pretend he’s not getting emotional over the volume of Neruda he pulled from the shelf.

A couple of hours later, he’s slumped over in the armchair, being shaken awake by Jackie Tyler and, for the second time today, he opens his eyes with a shout.

Jackie shushes him with a roll of her own eyes, and he’s about to speculate that seeing the mother of the bride should be considered far worse luck than seeing the bride, when he realizes she’s got something behind her back.

"If that’s a weapon, I need you to remember that Rose and I are already married, and this would make her an actual widow, so you ought to reconsider."

“Hush, you daft man,” Jackie huffs, smacking his forearm with the one hand that isn’t hidden. The Doctor propels himself up, bolting to his feet and nearly tumbling onto the Turkish carpet in his haste to climb over the armchair. After a moment of flailing, he regains his balance enough to begin a steady retreat across the room.

“Nobody knew where you’d gone,” Jackie says, unfazed as he scrambles away from her. “Lady Christina thought you might have done a runner. I figured you’d be hidden away somewhere, and since you weren’t squirreled away in the larder pilfering the banana cookies, the library seemed the most likely.”

“Banana cookies?” the Doctor says, perking right up. No, Jackie is here with a secret, this could be the end of the line for you, Doctor! Focus! He nods to the arm hidden behind her back. “What is it then, Jackie?”

“For your grand entrance this evening,” Jackie says, finally pulling out the thing she’s been hiding.

“Oh,” the Doctor squeaks, eyes popping open wide. “That’s — that’s a —”

“You were so adamant about not wearing a tux, about it being back luck, I thought this would do nicely instead,” Jackie says, advancing and brandishing a kilt at him with the enthusiasm of a mad scientist showing off her newest barmy creation. “Since we don’t know anything about your family, and you’re becoming part of ours, I thought it’d be proper for you to wear my family tartan. My great-great-great grandmother’s side was from Edinburgh, y’know.”

The Doctor can’t stop staring in mild horror at the elaborately pleated thing in her hand. “I didn’t know that,” he stammers. “Had no idea.”

“Here you go!” she says, shoving it at him just as his back thumps into the nearest bookshelf. There’s nowhere else to go, he’s cornered. She drapes the kilt over his arms. “I’ve got the sporran and shoes and everything. But you aren’t wearing that old brown thing with them.” Jackie nods at his pinstriped jacket and tie covered in blue roses. “There’s a stylist just outside the library, waiting to fix you up proper. It’s almost time for the party!”

She meets the Doctor’s eyes for a moment, her face softening and a smile spreading across her lips. Without warning, she surges forward and pulls him into a hug. He smacks the back of his head on the bookshelf in surprise, an instinctive move to preserve his life (if not his dignity), but her grip is inescapable.

“Thank you,” she whispers fiercely. “Thank you for keeping my little girl safe and making her so happy.” The Doctor’s arms flop uselessly behind her back as she takes a deep breath. Stepping away, she dabs away the tears leaking down her cheeks. “And if you tell anybody I was crying, I’ll murder you.”

Before he can say anything in response, she’s already at the door. His brain finally begins working properly again, the wheels turning faster as a dawning horror hits him. An age-old question, a mystery of the universe that has never been properly answered. “Jackie? Jackie! What do Scottish men wear under their kilts?”

“The stylist will get you sorted,” she says, just as another woman walks into the room. She’s older than Jackie, grey hair and matronly and reminds the Doctor of the lunch ladies who used to work at the Prydonian Academy. “And don’t worry about riding the horse into the reception. You can do it side-saddle, if you’re too worried about your manly bits.”

Still on her blissful cloud, Jackie files out. The Doctor stares in mild panic at the stylist. She stares back, surveying him from head to toe, and says in a thick Scottish accent, “Ms. Tyler warned me I’d have my work cut out for me, and she wasn’t lying. Take off your trousers, then.”

~~~~~

Weeks ago, there had been discussion of what Rose would wear to the reception. The discussions had been long and boring and held on an evening when the Doctor was making lasagna for dinner and she wanted to get home before he and Joanie ate all the corner pieces.

So she’d said something like, “I don’t care,” or “I’ll figure this out later,” or – and this one seems most likely in light of her current predicament – “Bring them all and I’ll decide there.”

Then, she’d gotten home in time for a corner piece (she should’ve known the Doctor would have one set aside) and now, here she is, the day of the reception, surrounded by an explosion of white and lace and tulle and satin.

Her hair and make up are already done – a tousled, sexy look that’s reminiscent of her old pop star image and seems like a bit too much, but her mum keeps getting teary-eyed and cooing over how grown up her little girl is, and it seems like she wants to keep doing that, so Rose has decided to leave it be.

And anyway, she’s got six different dresses to choose from, there’s hardly time for an up-do and a clean face. Instead, she’s lying on the bed in a pile of tulle in a room that’s been converted to a bridal suite.

"What about this one?" Donna asks, holding up an ankle length thing with a halter neckline. "Look, it even has pockets!"

Martha squints at from across the room. “On a wedding dress?”

Donna shrugs. “Might come in handy with her bloke, never know when she’ll need to have her mobile nearby with that one.”

Rose groans and flops on to her back and then immediately back to her front, worried about squishing her hair.

"Let’s just do process of elimination," Martha says. "No pockets, and to get away with wearing those trainers, you’re going to need to pick one of the longer ones."

Rose pushes herself off the bed, there’s a bottle of champagne across the room and on her way to it, she finally points at a dress.

"That one," she says decisively.

Strapless with a sweetheart neckline and a little bit of flaring out, but not too much, plus a length that just dusts the floor, it’s probably the most classic looking of the dresses.

There’s a pattern over the bodice, though, faint in lace, and the circles of it remind her of the label’s logo. There are circles inside circles and overlapping circles, and it makes an otherwise impersonal selection feel more personal.

At the very least, she’s looking forward to the Doctor’s fingers tracing over those lines all night.

The nanny brings Joanie into visit after a while, shyly offering Rose a blue marker and pointing at Joanie and the white Chuck Taylors lying in their box in the corner.

Rose has blue knickers on under the dress, the same color as that silly, old tour bus they love both so much, but this, too, is a wonderful idea for ‘something blue,’ and Rose readily agrees.

Joanie sets to decorating the canvas of the shoes in a dedicated toddler scrawl and the shoes start to look like the scribble drawings that cover so much of their house.

Soon, the shoes are done and on Rose’s feet, and Joanie’s swept away to be scrubbed and put into her own dress.

There’s finally enough time for that glass of champagne and then Lady Christina is knocking on the door of the suite.

"Five more minutes!"

It seems silly to be bundled into a car and driven away from the castle, only to be immediately shifted into a carriage and driven right back to the same castle, but that’s what happens anyway. It’s an open-topped thing, with two dapple horses pulling it, and a driver and footman along for the ride.

Rose sits by herself on the bench seat, the clop-clop of horse’s hooves and low rumble of hard wheels on pavement lulling her overexcitement. Maybe it’s the champagne finally hitting her system, or just the mood of the entire weekend, but she’s been properly worked up into a fit of anticipation, heart fluttering and sweat beading across her nose.

Thisisthe fairy-tale entrance, to the fairy-tale castle, and her fairy-tale life with the Doctor. Her particular fairy tale happens to include a happily-ever-after complete with burnt pot roasts, Doctors who don’t like being bothered before a cuppa in the morning, smelly socks on the floor, nights when they’re too tired to make love, and diaper pails that need to be emptied regularly, but a happily-ever-afterwithoutthose things would be mind-numbingly boring.

The jaunt to the castle isn’t long at all, and Rose is astonished at the number of vehicles lining the roads all the way along — she’d been driven down back roads to get out, to avoid being seen by the guests. But now she’s riding in right in front of everyone — hundreds of them, milling about in front of the castle. She’d helped her mum prepare the guest list, but actually seeing a crowd this size makes her feel like she’s about to go onstage and perform a set.

Rose is so preoccupied by the guests awaiting them, she doesn’t notice the bloke riding along the road perpendicular to hers, approaching at a quick (some might sayrunaway) pace. His frantic shouts of “Whoa, whoa,whoaaaaa boy!” finally get her attention, just as the carriage pulls up to the front gate of the castle.

The Doctor’s horse is barreling along at such a pace, a low-pitched squeal of alarm rustles through the crowd as they part like the Red Sea at his approach, giving him a clear line to the gate, and to the side of Rose’s carriage.

His hair flaps wildly in the wind, elbows akimbo as he holds onto the reins for dear life. He’s close enough for Rose to realize he’s wearing a kilt, of all things — a kilt, sporran, and kilt hose, along with a tuxedo jacket and black tie. And of course,of course, black Chucks to complete the formal outfit.

Just as Rose realizes she’s about to be broadsided and starts scrambling for the opposite door, the horse finally heeds the Doctor’s wild pulling at its reins and slows its pace. It blows out a huff of air, its annoyance plain, and the Doctor leaps off its back and lands with a surprisingly impressive flourish.

The crowd cheers.

Everyone is here, friends and family and acquaintances and photographers. A few articles had run in the gossip rags about the Doctor and Rose’s wedding of the year, but Jackie had managed to secure exclusive rights for Vogue to photograph the event. Rose isn’t thinking about any of those details at the moment, because she’s only got eyes for the Doctor.

He gestures toward the crowd, almost a bow, as though he’d planned his entrance down to the last gallop, and straightens his jacket. He looks spectacularly dashing in that kilt, his legs on display. Rose has never been so appreciative of all the running they seem to do on a daily basis.

~~~~~

The Doctor turns to the carriage; he’s been lectured at least four times by Lady Christina about exactly how this moment is supposed to go. He’ll open the carriage door, make sure she doesn’t faceplant on her way out, and lead her into the castle to start the celebration.

Except all of that careful instruction falls right out of his ear as he finally gets a proper look at his wife. She’s resplendent in the lacquered carriage, hair done up in a way that reminds him of the first time they made love in the back room at a pub in Wales, white dress shimmery in the pink rays of the setting sun.

He’s never seen her smile so wide, so brilliant.

At him.

The Doctor steps over to the carriage and opens the door, offering her his hand. “Dame Rose.”

She laughs, lifting her skirt a little so she can step out of the carriage. Just enough for him to notice her trainers, and the decoration unmistakably done by his daughter’s hand. “Sir Doctor.”

The crowd burbles and jostles around them as they float, arm-in-arm, into the castle.

They’re directed to a room he hasn’t been in before, though he has vague memories of being told about it when he received his numerous sets of instructions from Lady Christina.

It’s a ballroom and the doors to it large and heavy-looking. They’re being held open for them by impeccably dressed staff – mostly men, and all of them wearing trousers. He’d be jealous, but the kilt is sort of growing on him, a process that started only a few minutes ago back at the carriage, when Rose very deliberately ogled him in it.

He guides her across the floor, smiling politely at the people that have formed in two lines on either side of them, leading to the head table.

It’s a long walk in a big room and he can’t keep himself from leaning down, mouth brushing Rose’s ear as he speaks.

"You look very pretty," he says. "Love the shoes. Something blue, is it?”

She smiles at him. “You look very handsome,” she says. “And the shoes aren’t my only something blue.”

The last bit she delivers with a wink and his eyes rapidly scan her outfit in response. Save the shoes, there’s nothing with a spot of blue to be seen, which means she’s talking about her knickers and already trying, here at the start, to unbalance him a little bit.

It’s going to be a long night though, and he can’t just let that stand, so after they’ve reached the table and the staff has pulled out and pushed in their chairs, and Lady Christina is on her way to the front, presumably to make some sort of announcement, he leans over and quickly fires back.

"My pants were blue, too," he says. "You know, before.” And with that, he gestures to his kilt.

Rose’s eyes widen as Lady Christina finally reaches the front and cuts off any further conversation.

"Ladies and gentleman," Lady Christina says, and, oh, isn’t that wonderful, she’s wearing a microphone headset. This isn’t the last they’ll be hearing from her, then.

Even though it’s the sort they sometimes wear on tour, in this specific instance, it reminds the Doctor of a broken tour bus and a night spent somewhere in middle America, of a hoe-down, and a square dance caller, and the way Rose looks in a cowboy hat with a plaid shirt tied at her navel.

It reminds him of enough that he misses all of Lady Christina’s speech and only returns to Scotland, and a Rose that looks every bit as beautiful now as she did that night, when applause takes over the room.

Their friends file into fill the rest of the head table, Jackie to Rose’s other side, Donna to the Doctor’s and on and on, until everyone is seated throughout the room.

Apparently what he missed is that they’re starting right into the food, and wait staff quickly descends with the first course.

The entire meal progresses quickly, easy chatter among the head table and not a pear in sight.

As the plates are being cleared, he’s told that the dessert will happen later in the evening, and he immediately begins weighing the merits of smashing the cake in Rose’s face, or ignoring that bit.

On one hand, it’s quite cliche, isn’t it? But on the other hand, if there’s cake, Joanie will probably want to be involved, and if they make a real mess of it, maybe some of it will land on Rose’s chest, and maybe he can lick it off later.

Before he can decide, Rose’s hand finds his under the table linen, squeezing in a way that gets his attention. He glances at her face in time to see her plaster on a fake smile and then they’re being ambushed where they sit by a well-wishing guest.

They’re trapped for at least forty-five minutes just like this, sitting behind the table as a stream of friends and acquaintances and friends of acquaintances and strangers come up to express congratulations, gush over their music, and generally make the Doctor want to squirm right out of the room.

Fans are one thing — he poses for endless photos on the street, smiles instinctively at the sight of a camera, signs anything except exposed flesh for anyone who asks — he indulges his fans so ceaselessly that even Rose has been exasperated at him, on occasion. But this is different, all these well-wishers here to congratulate them on getting married, as though they weren’t already building a perfectly fantastic life before they got a piece of paper from the government. Some are sincere, and it’s a pleasure to talk to them; some are verging on sycophantic, and the Doctor has no patience for such behavior.

Under the tablecloth, Rose’s hand grows restless. First tugging away from his fingers, then fiddling with the pleats of his kilt. Eventually her palm settles on his knee, soft and warm, her fingernails stroking through the hair on his leg. The initial touch leaves him stuttering at the person standing in front of them — an editor for a music magazine of some sort? He can’t recall, he’s so focused on the sensation across his skin.

When the woman leaves, before the next guest can open their mouth, Rose leans over and whispers into his shoulder, “You aren’t blinking properly. Got something on your mind, Doctor?”

Dammit, she knows him like a book. Years they’ve been together, and she still knocks him off-balance as easy as breathing. And then she’s smug about it.

A minute later, when the band starts up from somewhere nearby, music trickling faintly through the ballroom doors, the Doctor decides it’s his turn.

“I’m sorry, you’ll have to excuse us,” he says as the next guest steps up to the head table to wish them well. “We have to be somewhere. Waltzes to do, Charlestons to see, you understand.”

He snatches Rose’s hand from his knee and stands up, pulling her to her feet. Fingers laced together, he leads her toward the music.

The crowd parts around them, people turning to stare and nod and smile as they pass. The Doctor is used to getting plenty of attention — it’s part and parcel of his career choice, and the amount of fame he’s been fortunate to achieve — but this evening, in the midst of friends and family and acquaintances and strangers, he feels too much like a dog on display at a dogshow. Usually his public appearances are on his own terms, even when he’s dealing with interviewers, but this time he’s on Jackie and Lady Christina’s terms, jumping through the hoops they’ve set up.

Rose’s arm is laced through his and she’s beaming. He’d said she looked pretty, but the word is wholly inadequate to describe how she’s glowing; she’s utterly alight, gliding along as though her feet don’t need to make contact with the ground. And he realizes that no one is looking at him — how could they be, when Rose Tyler is a goddess beside him?

The band is set up on the back lawn of the castle, along with a massive dance floor, a bar complete with tables and chairs, and enough twinkling fairy lights to make the night glow like the party is floating in a field of stars. He doesn’t recognize the musicians, but they’re playing a version of “Walking on the Moon” that seems fitting for the otherworldly setting.

Once the Doctor comes within ten feet of the dance floor, the music stumbles to a halt and Lady Christina’s voice crackles over the speakers. “Ladies and gentlemen, the happy couple! Here for their first dance! A little room, if you please!”

The large space clears, people shifting away.

“Doctor, Rose,” Lady Christina says, gesturing toward them from the bandstand. “The floor is yours.”

The musicians strike up again. Not The Police, though; this time it’s Glenn Miller, “In The Mood.”

The first few notes spark a vivid memory of a tiny club in Warsaw during their first tour together. He’d set out with Rose that morning to find a local place to have breakfast, ended up meeting an investigative journalist named Nancy and spending the day investigating a sketchy hospital’s connection to an outbreak of a strange disease during World War II. The Doctor and Rose made it back to the stadium just in time to perform the evening’s concert, and afterward found a small local club — a hole in the wall, smoke and liquor and history packed into every corner. It was the first time they had a proper dance together, the Doctor twirling Rose around on the tiniest of tiny dance floors as the pianist played, holding her close so she wouldn’t careen into a nearby table. Holding her close because he wanted to.

“Did you do that,” he asks, tilting his head toward the band.

“’Course,” she replies, catching her tongue between her teeth.

Just like in that little club, years ago, the rest of the people around them seem to melt away. Rose tugs his hand, pulling him onto the dance floor. His right hand goes to her waist, her left settles on his shoulder, and he begins to lead her around in circles. There’s no rhyme or reason to their steps, but Rose matches his movements as if she’s reading his mind.

“Mum tried to get me to drag you to dance lessons for this,” Rose says, gazing up at him. “She was worried you’d spend our first dance strutting around the dance floor like you do onstage when you’re performing.”

“Me, I’ve been around a bit,” the Doctor replies, feigning offense. “Your mum just assumes I’ve never danced?”

“You took me by surprise, in Warsaw,” Rose replies with an arched eyebrow. “Frankly, you don’t look like the dancing kind, Doctor.”

“I’ve got the moves. Just need the right partner, that’s all.”

Without warning, he spins her quickly and dips her backward, so far her hair nearly touches the ground. She makes a happy squeak and he pulls her back up, against his chest. Her arms go around his neck, his fingers link together at the small of her back, and they sway together.

“This isn’t so bad,” he says. “The party, and everything.”

“It’s pretty spectacular,” she replies.

“Mmm, and how long do you suppose until they let us leave?”

“We have to put on a good show, Doctor.”

“All right then. Let’s put on a show.” The Doctor’s arms tighten around Rose, bringing her hips against his own, and he leans down so his cheek touches hers. “And when the show is over, I have your wedding present. I can’t give it to you until we’re alone.”

Her nails scrape against the back of his neck. He feels her smile, the way her cheek moves against his. The curve of her bare shoulders, the smooth skin of her neck just within reach, he finds himself licking the back of his teeth. “I think I have an idea of what it is,” she says, swaying forward with a bit of extra force, so his sporran digs into his thighs.

“You really don’t,” he replies, not bothering to hide how pleased he is with himself, his bottom lip tickling her earlobe.

“Oh, I really do.” In the warm, humid space between them, Rose’s tongue darts against his Adam’s apple.

In a deft move, he spins her again and leans her backward, dipping her toward the floor. It’s a precarious position, especially in that strapless frock, the curve of her breasts swelling as she pulls in a surprised breath. It wouldn’t do to have a wardrobe malfunction here and now, but that doesn’t stop the Doctor’s imagination from conjuring the image anyway, Rose’s dress slipping down just far enough to expose pink nipples.

“Got a bit of drool there, Doctor,” Rose says smugly, when he finally looks at her face again.

The last notes of “In The Mood” drift away, and the band starts up with “Crimson and Clover.”

~~~~~

The scale of the evening is much larger than Rose would have ever planned on her own, but the party itself is fantastic. Surrounded by friends and family, all the people she cares about most, and a crowd of well-wishers besides, they spend the night dancing and drinking and smashing cake into each others’ faces. The Doctor takes Joanie out onto the dance floor, at first letting her stand on his trainers as they shuffle around, then picking her up and twirling her back and forth until she’s squealing with delight, screeching “Dada!” with all the infinite joy a three-year-old can muster.

Standing beside Martha at the bar, Rose watches them, and she’s convinced her heart is going to give out, it will burst like an overfilled balloon.

“He’s brilliant with her,” Martha says to Rose, as the bartender gives them both their drinks.

Rose can’t look away. “He is.”

“Never figured the Doctor would be the kind to settle down, much less be a dad. He really set a high bar for Mickey.”

It takes a second, the meaning behind the words to sink in, before Rose drags her attention away from the Doctor and Joanie on the dance floor. “Martha! Martha! Really?” she asks, fluttering her hands in excitement.

“We’re due next May. I’ve been waiting to tell you, didn’t want to steal any of the excitement away from this weekend. But Mickey let the cat out of the bag with Donna, and I wanted to say something to you before she did. And before the evening was over, and it’s too late.”

“Congratulations!” Rose throws her arms around her friend, pulling her into a tight embrace. “I am so, so excited for you both! Mickey’ll be an amazing dad!”

Before the evening’s over, and it’s too late? What could Martha possibly be talking about? It’s not as though they don’t all have a brunch together on Lady Christina’s officially sanctioned, laminated schedule for tomorrow.

Before Rose can think about it any more, Jack comes gliding through the cloud toward her. “You are a vision of loveliness, Rose Tyler,” he says. “May I have this dance?”

“It would be my pleasure.”

It’s two in the morning before guests begin trickling away from the party. A few of them curl up on the lawn, or on armchairs in the castle library. The dance floor is empty, half of the band is at the bar, and the other half is soldiering on half-heartedly as Donna and Lee sway together on the dance floor.

The nanny took Joanie up to bed hours ago, and Rose is sitting on the Doctor’s lap at the edge of the dance floor, arms looped around each other.

“That evening wasn’t so painful, was it?” she asks, nuzzling her forehead into the warm crook of his neck. There are still a few specks of icing on his collar, left over from the cake-cutting debacle.

“As long as I never see the bill for all of this, then I think we can count is as less painful than anticipated.”

“Mum paid for the entire thing,” Rose replies.

“Really?” The Doctor seems genuinely surprised.

“She wanted the party, she offered to pay. It’s her gift to us.”

The Doctor makes a low humming sound, obviously contemplating something. “Speaking of gifts, are you ready for yours?”

Rose laughs. “Are you trying to get me upstairs, into bed?”

“Not exactly.”

Rose stands up, sticking out her hand toward the Doctor. He gets to his feet, and to her surprise, instead of leading her toward the castle, he begins leading her away from it.

Half the fun of surprises with the Doctor is the kick he gets out of giving them. There’d been birthdays and holidays here and there where she’d just asked, in a practical way, for something she wanted or needed, and those were invariably the worst, the most boring.

So, for tonight, as part of a present to him, she plays right into it. Now that the bed’s been ruled out, she’s certain they’re going to shag in the forest, or maybe he’s set up a tent like that night in Australia, and she’s thrilled about it, really. The Doctor is typically a perfect match for her in bed, years of technique and familiarity coming together for…coming together. Or, well, coming within reasonable distance of each other, most of the time.

But when he’s got it in his head that it’s supposed to be a present or a special occasion, it’s a whole different level, a slightly obsessive level, even. That mouth of his up to so much, action and words and she knows he keeps count on nights like these, smiling sleepily at her in the afterglow, quiet and smug and, “…that was three for you, wasn’t it?”

It’s certainly not a bad thing to have ahead of her, a night like that, and she leans into it.

"You know I heard there’s supposed to be a werewolf in these woods?" she says, tightening her hand around his. "You gonna protect me? Or are you what I need protecting from?"

The Doctor gives her a smile, deliberate and full of promise, but he doesn’t slow his pace, and he doesn’t try and snog her against a tree, so she tries again.

Freeing her hand from his, she slips it around his waist instead, fingers dancing down his bum to confirm that, yes, he’s definitely not wearing pants underneath that kilt.

"Or maybe it’s you that needs the protection," she says, and gives him a quick slap on the arse. It’s possible, maybe, that she had just one glass too many of the champagne, but it feels good, and she feels happy, and the Doctor’s laughing at her, smile wide and scandalized.

"You, Rose Tyler, will not distract me from this," he says, waggling a finger at her. "I had to work very hard to make this happen, it required cooperation with a lot of people, including your mother, and I’m going to show it to you before you show me those blue knickers of yours.”

Then he tips his head to her ear, mouth brushing the skin there as he speaks in a low, husky voice. “They’re wet though, aren’t they?”

And then – then – he takes off running.

"Come on," he shouts, "put those trainers of yours to good use!"

She’s off like a shot, hiking her dress up in her fists and chasing after him through the trees, the moon lighting their way as she follows him toward the edge of the small forest.

He stops right as the trees clear, waiting for her at what appears to be the side of the road, and when she catches up to him, she only has a moment to catch her breath before he’s pointing down the street.

"There – " he says, " – there is your wedding present, Rose Tyler."

She follows his hand to see –

Oh my god, to see the TARDIS.

Their beloved blue tour bus, last seen such a long time ago, in a depot in London with a list of needed repairs, is here in Scotland.

Her legs start moving again before she can stop them and she’s running the short distance to the bus, pausing at the door as the Doctor catches up.

"How did you…I thought she was broken..? Did you have her towed here?"

The Doctor shakes his head. “Nope, I had her driven here,” he says. “She’s drivable again, practically brand new. We can go wherever you’d like…on our honeymoon.”

And with that, he opens the bus door. The lights are on inside and she’s drawn immediately to the small table they spent so much time at, writing lyrics and eating meals, only now it’s covered in travel brochures.

He comes up behind her, hands smoothing over her waist to rest on her stomach as he nuzzles his nose into the chaos of her hair.

"All of the world at our disposal, Rose Tyler…where do you want to start?"

She turns in his arms, looping her own around his neck as her smile takes over her face.

“Thank you,” she says, and there are so many questions she wants to ask – how long will they go for, where will Joanie sleep, a million things on the tip of her tongue.

The Doctor drops a kiss on the tip of her nose. “I can see those wheels spinning,” he says. “Your mum’s got Joanie for the next two weeks, Donna’s cancelled all our appearances for the next month, and if we want to stay on the road longer, that bench there folds out to a bed for Joanie now.”

It’s overwhelming, standing here, next to her husband, in the middle of the TARDIS, in the middle of the only place that’s always felt the most like home to them, and she pulls him closer, pressing a kiss to his lips before tipping her forehead to his.

“Thank you,” she says again.

“Thank you,” he says, and this time he kisses her.

She could do this all night, stand in grateful awe of everything life has given her, keep right at it until the sun has come up and her mascara is streaked with happy tears, but there are better ways to spend their (second) wedding night, and instead she pulls back only to loop a finger into the chain holding his sporran up.

“Come on,” she says, leading him toward the back of the bus and the small bedroom area that’s really just a bed. “Let’s see if the mattress still squeaks.”

Before she can get the door open, he’s got her pressed against it.

“Oh, it does,” he says. “Gave strict instructions that it not be fixed. We earned that squeak, Rose Tyler, and I’m going to remind you exactly how we did it.”

With that, he reaches behind her, gripping the small handle on the accordion door and sliding it open.

“After you, Mrs. Doctor,” he says, gesturing toward the bed.

“Why, thank you, Mr. Rose,” she returns, and shimmies onto the duvet, kicking off her trainers and socks before hiking her dress up and rising to kneel on the mattress in front of him.

She takes a moment to let her eyes rake over him, the tuxedo on the top, the kilt on the bottom, and her fingers start to itch. So many things to undo and unclasp and unbutton and she’s going to have to get started without the advantage of sight because he’s kissing her again, and shows no signs of stopping.

He moves to kneel on the mattress, mirroring her pose as he backs her up toward the pillows dropping a series of wet, messy kisses to each of her lips.

When she gets to the head of the bed, she scoots her legs out from under herself, moving to recline against the pillows as he hurriedly reaches down to tug his trainers off.

He’s got on special socks or hose or something, and there appears to be a little knife tucked into them, but she’s not in the mood for a lesson right now, and he’s clearly not in the mood to give one, shucking all of it off quickly and moving to brace himself on his arms over her.

Her dress is still hiked up above her knees and he shifts his weight to one hand, reaching to trace up the inside of her calf with his free hand. She tugs him down by the hair to kiss him and his lips part against hers quickly, tongue slipping into her open mouth to lap alongside hers. Deep, slow kisses with the sort of unhurried single-mindedness that has her arching her hips beneath him, trying to get his hand to move farther up her legs.

It’s a useless pursuit though, as he seems to be on his own schedule, mouth pulling from hers to kiss down her neck and across her collarbone. There’s a lot of skin left exposed by the strapless nature of her dress and he seems keen to explore it all, nose nudging the top of the fabric to get at the tops of her breasts. His tongue traces the edges and then he’s tilting his face up to look at hers.

"Bra?"

She shakes her head and he grins brightly.

"Brilliant! Then I can do this," and he lifts the hand from her legs to the top of her dress, pulling and tugging on first one side and then the other, so that her breasts spring free, albeit awkwardly propped up by the wire and fabric in the gown.

"Oh, I missed you two last night," he says and smiles pleasantly at her chest. "I missed you" – he kisses the left one – "and you" – he kisses the right one – "and you" – this time he darts up to press a kiss to Rose’s mouth.

"I missed all of you and all your parts," he tells her solemnly.

She rolls her eyes but can’t help the smile. “You’d think your parts were hardy used or something. It was just one night, and I bet you spent it staring at Joanie.”

His eyes dart away and she knows she has him. Her victory is short-lived though, as his mouth swoops down to engulf a nipple, his fingers making quick work of the other one and then she forgets to be smug and starts squirming instead.

There’s too much between them, the bunched up gown, and his tuxedo, and the sporran, although…if she moves just right…might be able to get that…ah, yes, there it is. She arches her hips, twisting slightly before beginning to rock slowly – there, that’s perfect.

He pulls back from her chest, lips already slightly swollen as they form a scandalized ‘o’.

"Rose Tyler, did you just hump a very important piece of Scottish heritage?”

She shrugs impishly and then bucks her hips again for good measure. “It’s blocking what I’d really like to get at. Figured I’d be resourceful.”

He rocks back onto his heels and moves to undo the chain holding the sporran up before tossing it aside. “It’s sort of our wedding night, you know,” he admonishes. “And here you are, letting a little leather pouch have all the fun. How would you feel if I just started rutting against the folds of your gown?”

His hand slips into the mound of fabric, pressing hard, directly where she wants him to. “Here, maybe,” he says and presses again, setting up a slow rhythm that she’s quickly arching to meet again.

"Wouldn’t that make you sad?" he says, "If the dress had all the fun?”

She nods, hair catching on the pillow, but doesn’t stop the motion of her hips.

"Well, don’t you think we ought to take it off?"

She nods again and he pulls his hand back quickly, an action she responds to with a frustrated groan. “Brilliant, we’re in agreement then,” he says. “You get all that off,” – he gestures at her dress – “I’ll get all this off,” – he gestures at his outfit – “and I’ll meet you when we’re naked, yeah?”

He hops off the bed to stand at the foot of it, fingers working on the buttons of his tuxedo jacket and then his tie. She moves to follow him, her arm reaching around to get at the zip on the back of her dress when she’s struck with a thought.

"Wait," she says, and rushes to sit at the edge of the bed, "I wanted to see this for myself." And with that, she tugs on the hem of his kilt, bringing him close enough that she can pull it up. It’s tented slightly, but the fabric is heavy and as she draws the material up, rucking it at his hips, his cock follows.

His bare cock – because he really did it, he genuinely went without pants for the entire reception. It’s something that deserves a reward and she leans forward and presses a kiss to the tip of his erection.

There’s something to be said for the absorbency properties of boxer briefs, and things are a little sweatier, a little muskier than usual, but it’s sort of arousing, and she doesn’t stop with a kiss, instead opening her mouth wider to take in more of him.

Above her, he’s stopped unbuttoning his shirt, and she glances up in time for his eyes to fixate on hers. He lets out a breathy groan, a pleased, encouraging sort of groan, and she tightens her lips around him, creating a small amount of suction as she bobs up and down, eyes not leaving his.

"Fuck, Rose,” he breathes, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear, “You’re so fucking good at that.”

For all the Doctor’s smug looks every time he emerges, mouth glistening, from between her legs, Rose is every bit as confident in her abilities to return the favor, and she deliberately swirls her tongue around the tip and then increases the suction, hand coming to assist, first ringing the base of his cock and then moving to dance gently around his balls.

"Ohhh, don’t stop," he says and then sucks in a breath, "Wait, no, stop, stop, not like that."

She’d figured that was coming and pulls back slowly, deliberately licking her lips as she leans back on the bed to rest on her hands.

"Other plans for the evening, Doctor?" He looks a little bit ridiculous, erection keeping his kilt up, the fabric falling stiffly and awkwardly on either side of it, and she taps at the tip of it, making it bob slightly. "Other plans for this?”

Instead of answering, he lifts his hands to his open jacket, stripping it off quickly, and then following it with his tie, shirt, and the kilt.

Then he grips her shoulders, pulling her up and turning her around until he can get at the zip on her dress. It’s down and the dress is off in moments, leaving her just in – admittedly, yes, wet – her blue knickers.

He turns her back around, feet catching only slightly in the pile of fabric at her feet.

"My plans," he says, and it nearly sounds like a growl, "involve this" – and without preamble he shoves his hand into her knickers, two fingers sweeping quickly to enter her – "and this,” – and he grabs one of her hands, wrapping it around his erection. “Do those sound like your plans?”

She tightens her hand around his cock, hitching her hips to grind down on his fingers at the same time, but the angle is wrong and it ends up being more uncomfortable than anything. Still, it’s a nice thought, a fucking gorgeous thought, and she does her best to get out her agreement.

"Yes," she says, voice hitching, because he’s figured out the angle’s wrong and removed his fingers, only to circle them around her clit instead, "god, yes.”

He dips his head to brush his mouth against hers, breath ghosting over her face as he speaks, “Brilliant.”

She’s had enough of the teasing, both here in the bus, and throughout the reception, and she shuffles back quickly, his hand slipping from her knickers and hers from his cock as she scoots on to the bed before he can stop her.

Inching to the head of the bed again, she removes her knickers and tosses them to the side of where he still stands. He watches them hit the ground and then drags his eyes back to her, his gaze lingering over every part of her on the way to her face. It makes her squirm, twisting her hips and rubbing her thighs together, trying for friction, and he watches that, too.

They’ve been together too long to be embarrassed about this sort of thing, and if he’s just going to stand there, looking completely fuckable, but not actually doing anything about it, she’s going to help herself out. She moves her hands down her body slowly, stopping to play with her breasts and then smooth down her stomach, before scratching slightly at the short patch of hair between her legs.

He’s focused entirely on her hand, watching as she spreads her legs and her fingers follow, index finger slipping down to ring around her clit, and then he’s grinning, a brilliant, wide, happy grin that lights his whole face.

"You are amazing,” he says. “My wife is amazing.”

And with that, he climbs on to the bed, hovering over her and moving her hand only to replace it with his own. She’s plenty ready and he can definitely tell, but if she knows him, and she certainly does, he’s going to try and use his mouth anyway. Before he can, she guides his face to hers, kissing him sloppily, and then urging him to position himself between her legs.

He goes willingly, bracing himself on one hand as he uses the other to position himself at her entrance before sliding in smoothly. He lets out a low breath, dropping his forehead to her shoulder for a moment before he slides out again, setting up a long, slow rhythm.

She goes along with it for a little bit, hands twining in his hair, scratching down his back, smoothing over his arse, but it’s not going to be enough. With a quick nip to his shoulder, she locks her legs around his waist, twining them at the ankles and bucking up into him with the added leverage.

"Faster," she says, and he nods above her before kissing her wherever he can reach, neck, mouth, shoulder, earlobe, his mouth is wet and hot and everywhere.

His hips have started pounding against hers, faster faster faster, strokes growing shorter and shorter and her fingers dig into the muscles of his back, her mouth open against his shoulder as he pants above her.

He pushes himself up on his hands without dropping the rhythm. “God, look at you,” he breathes, “you’re gorgeous,” and she wants to return the sentiment, wants to tell him she loves him and how happy she is and how everything changed the day she agreed to tour with him, but what she really wants, right now, is to come. He seems to sense it and drops back down, mouth working against hers without finesse, his body covering hers.

She’s so close, just a little bit more, just a few seconds longer and, oh fuck yes fuck, there it is, and she moans underneath him, a loud, aimless sound that comes in waves, matching the pulse of pleasure thrumming through her. It’s joined by the Doctor’s own moan, his hips stilling above hers as he’s buried deep and releasing inside of her. The moment stretches, slick skin and panting breaths and then she’s wrapping her arms around him, pulling him down on top of her as they both wait for their hearts to calm.

A few long moments later, he rolls off of her and onto his back, and she snuggles up against him, head pillowed on his chest and arm wrapped around his waist.

"I love you," she says, nuzzling into his skin.

"I love you, too," he says, dropping a kiss to her hair.

She hadn’t intended to fall asleep, but the next thing she knows, the sun is streaming in through the blinds on the bus windows, and she can hear the sound of cars driving by on the road outside.

Behind her, the Doctor tightens his arm around her waist, and presses a kiss to her shoulder before rolling away and stretching.

From there, they settle on heading back inside the castle to shower, and since they’re both hungry, they decide to attend Lady Christina’s brunch after all.

For Rose, it’s mostly an excuse to see Joanie one more time before they set out on their honeymoon trip, and as the Doctor scoops Joanie up and refuses to let her sit in her booster seat the entire meal, she figures it’s the same for him.

Soon though, goodbyes have been said, re-said, and sealed with kisses and hugs, and they’re back on the bus with luggage and a two week honeymoon in front of them.

It’s a day like any other day, and it’s not even their first day as a married couple, but, somehow, as the Doctor maneuvers the bus into traffic and squeezes her hand as they get on the road, it feels like they’re going further than they’ve ever gone before. 


End file.
